


We'll Just Have to Face it This Time

by richcreamerybutter



Series: ABBA-Esque [1]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Character Study, Come Eating, Edging, Ejaculation, Emotionally Repressed, Flashbacks, Fondling, Grinding, Hand Job, Hot Tub, Implied Relationships, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Log Cabin, Loss of Virginity, Love Confessions, M/M, Marking, Massage, Masturbation, More than anything else really, NSFW, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise, Public Nudity, Restraint, Rimming, Rushed Sex, Sharing a Bed, Sort Of, Swallowing, Sweden - Freeform, Trauma, copia is shit at this, else I'll ruin things, eventually, hot tub massage, inexperienced copia, over clothes, papa and copia aren't brothers, papa iii lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26549794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richcreamerybutter/pseuds/richcreamerybutter
Summary: With Papa III missing, presumed dead, and very much mourned by (most of) the clergy, Copia's promotion isn't without trepidation. Fortunately, Sister Imperator allows him some time to contemplate the task ahead at the church's secret Swedish retreat.Unfortunately, when he gets there, contemplation doesn't look as though it's going to be possible.
Relationships: Cardinal Copia/Papa Emeritus III
Series: ABBA-Esque [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082639
Comments: 97
Kudos: 77





	1. When I Kissed the Teacher

**Author's Note:**

> Born of the desire to write Copia and III in the snow. That's all. For now!

It's a lot to take in.

I must be looking as sick as I feel, because Sister Imperator reaches out a rare, comforting hand to touch my forearm.

'I know I don't necessarily _understand,_ but I do know that it must be overwhelming for you.'

'Something like that,' I say. 'I mean … the prospect has been hovering over me for a while, but then the prospect is different from the reality, you know?'

It's all a dizzying wet dream until it's actually happening, and the magnitude of what it means hits home. Two years of relentless touring and representing the ministry all around the world, the face of everything we do here. Attempting to win over fans all around the world who are still madly in love with … _him_. And attempting to win over that bastard Nihil … I give a little shudder, and Sister purses her lips in sympathy.

'Well, precisely. Tell me, Cardinal – has anybody ever told you about the ministry's Swedish retreat?'

I had not expected her to say anything like that.

'Erm. No. Why do we have a Swedish retreat?' I ask.

Sister's brow furrows for a moment. 'Do you know, I'm not sure,' she says. 'I suppose it's just somewhere remote, and far removed from the environment that surrounds us here. It isn't used very often. But when it is, it's usually in situations like this, when someone desperately needs some headspace.'

'Are you putting me on gardening leave?'

She shakes her head with a barely-detectable roll of the eyes. 'Don't be silly. I'm suggesting – no. I'm ordering you to take a long weekend's break. I think it will do you the world of good to be able to think straight about the task ahead. It's Friday today, yes?' I nod. 'Right. Go and get ready. I will make the necessary arrangements and you will be touching down in Luleå by dinner. I don't actually know where our cabin is located from there, but that's the idea, I believe. No one will be able to bother you with anything relating to work until your ride to the airport arrives on Monday morning. How does that sound?'

The idea that we own a random cabin in northern Sweden is still amusing me. I almost don't realise that Sister has asked me a question – I jerk back into myself to give her a couple of appreciative bows of the head as I try to register her words enough to form an answer. _How does that sound?_

Huh. A weekend away, paid for by work. Time all to myself so I can concentrate on the future imminently facing me ...

It isn't that I haven't been expecting it, as arrogant as that perhaps sounds. Since Papa Emeritus the Third disappeared, back in September, the whole ministry has known that things were going to take a turn – and since there were no Papas left who were young enough to perform frontmanly duties, it made sense that the role would go to another senior member of the clergy. Perhaps the member with the second-most Employee of the Month awards. It made sense.

But still.

This will be the first time Ghost have been fronted by anyone other than a Papa. Ghouls, sisters and fans alike are still in a sort of state of mourning over our loss of the Third. I'm not sure he has actually died, but he might as well have done. I _am_ sure we're unlikely to see him again. It is understandable that the ministry is shrouded in melancholy. He was a character, indeed. Suave, funny, sexy, with a way of making you feel like the only person who mattered to him even though you knew he was making everyone else he spoke to feel that way, too. Good-looking. Lithe and fit for his age. He was older than me but I always felt like a sort of responsible, exasperated authority figure to his excitable teenager, despite being caught up in his enthusiasm so much of the time …

I'm getting carried away with my reminiscing: I heave a sigh. And Sister, somehow, thinks I am fit to follow in the footsteps of Papa's shining spats.

Phew. Yes. I need this break.

'Sister,' I say, finally. 'That sounds wonderful.'

She takes hold of both of my hands. 'Excellent! Now, go and pack for cold weather. I believe it will be snowing at this time of year.'

*

I don't have much time to prepare to leave. Most pressingly, I have to find someone to take care of my rats, Per and Marie, for the weekend: Fire is the first ghoul I find, but after he looks at the poor things as though they're about to be his dinner, I seek out Aether instead, and bribe him with a bunch of bananas. I give him explicit instructions not to let Fire anywhere near them.

The ghoul who meets me at the airport in Luleå, in a grey Saab, greets me with literal open arms. I have to stare for a moment before I realise it's Phil – I haven't seen him since around the time Papa was dragged from the stage in Gothenburg by his father's cronies. He looks good. I wonder where he's been, whether he's spent the days since that fateful show indulging in winter sports out here.

He pulls me into an embrace. 'Sister phoned ahead and told me your good news. Congratulations. It couldn't have happened to a more deserving Cardinal.'

I have always liked Phil. He's a bit strange, but overall level-headed. It was his idea to have a Cat Petting Room backstage at every ritual we play. The realisation that I will get to indulge in that after rituals now does bring a tiny smile to my face as I hug Phil warmly.

'Thank you,' I say. 'I'm not sure I agree with you necessarily, but thank you. How are you doing?'

We draw apart, and he shrugs. 'I'm a little bit bored, really, but aren't we all between tour cycles? I'm excited to find out what's coming next. Is there anything you can tell me?'

I match his shrug. 'No, unfortunately. Everything I know, I imagine Sister has passed onto you. Although, having said that –' I jerk my head toward my suitcases, only one of which I've packed myself. I had to lie at the airport and, fortunately, was not arrested, so I doubt there are any hallucinogens stashed away to loosen me up over the weekend. 'I have no idea what's in that red case, so perhaps I will find something out when I unpack that I can report back to you on Monday.'

'I hope so. Now – I must apologise, Cardinal, but Sister absolutely insists I blindfold anyone who comes out to the lodge. We need it to remain as secret as possible, you see, so I can't risk you going back to the ministry and blabbing about any of it. This way it could be one of any of the cabins in the country.'

I just wave my hand. This isn't as weird a practise as it might sound to anyone who doesn't belong to our bizarre, secretive church. 'Blindfold away. I'll probably doze off in the car anyway.'

It's a couple of hours of half-asleep winding along curvy, mountainous roads before the engine begins to rumble more with the changing down of gears and I'm stirring. I'd been quite comfortable so I'm disappointed to have to start wiggling my limbs, instilling some feeling into my body ready to get out of the car into the snow. I realise my big winter coat is in my suitcase and curse myself. I hope Phil parks directly in front of the front door so I can spill straight inside and light a huge fire. I'm imagining there is a fire? Perhaps there isn't. Perhaps it is a draughty, rickety shed, no distractions to prevent me from contemplating Satanic duties. I hadn't thought of that possibility until now.

'Right, Cardinal,' Phil says. We pull to a stop, and I hear the handbrake. 'You're free to take off your blindfold. This is as far as I'm allowed to take you, and I'll meet you here again at half past eight on Monday morning, OK?'

 _This is as far as I'm allowed to take you._ Shit – that doesn't sound good. Very in-character for this stupid church, but not good. I wiggle my blindfold down to my neck, dazzled by white light. 'OK. Is it far?'

'No, it's just that there isn't room for the car. You've got to follow the path to the left out there … it's maybe a hundred metres into the trees, that's all. You can't miss it.'

'Wait, where will you be when I'm here?'

'Oh, I've got a little place in the nearest town. Can't disclose it, though! You know how it is.'

My eyes are still adjusting. I blink a few times in the direction Phil indicated, and gradually, the path reveals itself. It's like something from a Christmas card. _Snow is falling, all around me …_ with pine trees and mountains in the background. There is, undoubtedly, a lake somewhere near here, too. I just bet.

Phil helps me with the suitcases, but that's as far as he takes it. After that, I'm on my own, hands growing numb already despite my leather gloves. I grumble to myself as I struggle to maintain my own equilibrium while trying to drag two large suitcases at once through snow, and slightly uphill to boot. I can't miss it, apparently, but from where I'm standing all I see is trees.

Then it appears. Slowly, like the early shots in a film that establish where the action is going to take place. As I near the brow of the hill, a chimney appears, atop a wooden roof. Then the walls, true log-cabin walls, and a fence around the perimeter. It is surrounded, on all sides, by trees, but set in its own space, and the overall effect is like a dream. I smile. The first thing I'm going to do is run a bath, and maybe not get out of it for several hours. There will be time to enjoy the landscape later, when I'm sufficiently bundled up.

I'm so cold that I can barely navigate the lock with the key that Phil handed me before he drove away, but we get there in the end, and I push both suitcases inside before I can finally shelter myself from the elements. I shut the door, lock it behind me to be safe, and sigh.

It's the exact sort of interior I would have pictured in a Swedish log cabin. A hallway that leads into a living room with trophy heads on the walls, a huge fireplace, a fur rug in front of it … I abandon the suitcases by the door to edge around the place, hugging myself. A kitchen, a small dining room beside it. A bathroom, with a wide, deep bath, thank Satan, between two bedrooms. And a back door, leading out to a deck that looks vast even from the limited view I have of it.

It's beautiful. I understand, now, why we have it. Its infrequent use has kept it neat and tidy and I can't see anything here that will distract me from myself. I imagine everyone who leaves here does so with complete clarity of mind.

Then the singing strikes me.

It's muffled, like it's coming from another room, but I've peeked in every one that I'm aware of. Perhaps I have left a device switched on in a suitcase? No … I wouldn't be able to hear that from there. I stop in my tracks, suspended between the living room and the hall that leads to the bedrooms, to listen hard. I can hear better now I'm concentrating. I suspect it's coming from the back of the cabin, not the front. I can make out the melody, and words.

' _One of these days … gonna tell him I dream of him every night …'_

My heart creeps upwards, hammering at the bottom of my throat so that I feel nauseous.

' _One of these days … gonna show him I care, gonna teach him a lesson all right …'_

I know that voice. And I'd never, ever imagined I would hear it again.

I want to run outside, but I force myself to wait for a second or two, gathering my thoughts. I swallow hard, making sure the bile that's trying to surface stays very much in my stomach. Then, mustering as much confidence as I can, I stride to the back door and pull on the handle. It's unlocked.

Invisible from the windows of the lodge, there is a sauna, set a little way away in the trees. And along the decking, also out of view unless you're really looking for it at a tight angle from the window, is a huge hot tub. And it's full. Steam billows into the chilly air, melting the small snowflakes before they have a chance to reach the surface of the bubbling water, and almost hiding a face from me – but now I'm looking for it, it stands out from anything else out here.

Papa is wearing his corpse paint even in a hot tub, because he's exactly that kind of person. He's also wearing a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses, and he's leaning back against the edge of the hot tub, singing loudly to himself. ABBA. Of course. I can't fathom this – the ache in the pit of my stomach that's been ever-present since his disappearance is protesting at the sight, furious that it's been for nothing. He doesn't seem to care about the ministry's suffering in his absence. He's just … he's _singing_ in a fucking _hot tub_.

And in that second, I almost hate the little piece of shit.


	2. Dancing Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papa briefly fills the Cardinal in on how he managed to escape to northern Sweden, but Copia struggles to believe he's found himself face-to-face with his friend again. Never fear, however! Papa is determined, nevertheless, that Copia's weekend will be as relaxing as Sister Imperator intended it to be ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sporadic updating, sorry. The chapter outlines exist but not much of the story does, and I'm very very busy!
> 
> And I'm not crazy about this chapter. I'm sorry it feels very expositionny.

'What in Satan's name,' I say, 'are you doing here?'

Papa doesn't jump at my harsh tone, or look surprised to see me. He's not even embarrassed to've been caught belting out 70s pop music. He just reaches up to nudge his sunglasses down and observe me over the top of them, a move I know he's practised, and lets his smile grace his face slowly.

'Cardinal Copia,' he says. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?'

'Sister Imperator has sent me here for quiet Satanic reflection,' I say. I move towards him so I can address him more directly, though I resent being dragged out into the cold again. 'I doubt she'd have done so if she'd known you were lounging around the decking …'

'Oh, I know she has,' Papa says, 'I was merely asking for effect. Phil warned me Sister had instructed him to drive you from the airport for the weekend, so I spent ages thinking of the best way to greet you. What do you think?'

He gestures around him, and I fold my arms. I know what he's like, of course, but I really am struggling with his blasé attitude considering everything that's happened. It's not something I'm able to let go.

'I wasn't sure if you were even _alive –_ ' I say, but he cuts across me.

'Calm down, Copia! You're meant to be here to relax!'

' _How can I relax?_ ' I scream. 'My ex-boss has just appeared in a fucking hot tub! I'm dragged out to Sweden in a blindfold and then … then _you_ …'

I have a feeling that, if he were standing in front of me, he'd be laying a placatory hand on me right now. He just frowns, in what looks like real concern, though he might be putting that on: it wouldn't be unlike him, and I still can't see him very clearly through all the steam.

'Look, I know this is a lot to take in, and I can explain – though there isn't really much _to_ explain,' he says. 'I'm sorry. Maybe I was a little frivolous in my big reveal. Why don't you go and get changed and join me in here? You look freezing.'

He must know that his words give my lower abdomen a little tug. I have indeed brought swimming shorts, in an attempt to cover all eventualities, and I haven't warmed up properly yet. The idea of basking in the warmth of a hot tub is inviting. Even if I have to share it with _him._ It won't be anywhere near as relaxing as I would like it to be, but it'll be a thousand times better than standing out in the snow like I am right now.

'OK,' I say, eventually, and he beams. 'Give me five minutes to freshen up.'

'Oh, you can piss in here, I won't tell anyone,' Papa calls after me. I ignore him, praying to Satan he's kidding.

I drag both suitcases into one of the bedrooms, checking for signs of Papa – it's all clean, so I assume I'm allowed to sleep in here. I've buried my swimming shorts right at the bottom of my suitcase, anyway, so my bedroom is immediately claimed by the clothes I subsequently toss all over the place in an attempt to find them. It feels counter-intuitive, to be dressing for a pool in such temperatures. I'm not looking forward to the five-second dash to the tub.

I brace myself in the bathroom first. I still feel a little sluggish from the journey, so I take a moment to splash my face with water and end up staring at myself in the mirror. I really am about to get into a hot tub with my old friend and boss, a thoroughly irritating little man whom I'd suspected I would never see again. It's not the most dignified way to begin a reunion, I have to admit.

But the warmth lures me back out.

He laughs at me picking my way across the decking, and I wouldn't be surprised if all of my exposed skin was turning blue.

'You and your rats,' he laughs. I look down, remembering that my red shorts are printed with black rat silhouettes. I stopped noticing a long time ago, to be honest. 'How are they doing, anyway?'

'They're fine,' I say. 'Thank you for asking. Getting old, of course, but still going strong.'

It's all I can do to slide into the tub rather than leap into it, and I can't resist the deep moan of relief that escapes me as the warmth reaches me, inside and out, almost immediately.

'Good, huh?' Papa says, watching me in amusement as I submerge myself up to my chin. 'If only Phil were still around to bring us food, I don't think I would ever leave.'

I just nod, savouring the effect the bubbles are having on my weary body. Papa seems to understand. He leans back, closing his eyes again, as I adjust. And it's luscious.

'Anyway,' I manage to get out. 'You need to explain yourself, you sneaky devil. You say Phil knows you're here?'

'Phil is the _only_ one who knows I'm here. Well. Apart from you, now.'

'So how did you get here? I thought Nihil had bundled you away somewhere. I find it hard to believe he gave you a hefty severance package so you could buy yourself a nice log cabin.'

Papa smiles wryly. 'You can just say he's a bastard, it's fine,' he says. 'Yes, he did try to bundle me away somewhere. Satan knows where. Probably wherever the First and Second are now … hopefully alive, but who the fuck knows? It's not as though I can help them.' He pauses to allow a grim sigh, but recovers quickly. 'Fortunately, I was held in the Cat Petting Room while Nihil presumably made more permanent preparations, but he'd forgotten how much time Phil spends in there ... luckily for me. Phil sneaked me out, and arranged for me to travel up here, where I've been pretty much ever since.'

'You just live in this log cabin?'

'It works. Phil is always informed when someone is coming to visit, obviously, so he can warn me and I'm able to escape into the town for a few days. There's usually some willing Swede who shares their hospitality,' he grins here, and I know exactly what he's getting at: I'm glad I'm already pink in the face from the warmth of the water. 'Or Phil, on occasion, if he's hanging around.'

I don't bother asking how hospitable Phil is, exactly. 'But for the most part, you're out here alone?'

He nods. 'That's pretty much the size of it, yes.'

My chest tightens in anguish at that, I have to admit.

'And when you found out I was on my way …?'

'Well. I couldn't pass up an opportunity to reunite with my favourite Cardinal, could I?' He gives me an exaggerated grin. 'Especially not the Cardinal I would trust with my darkest secrets. Have trusted many a time, in fact. I assume Imperator never found out it was me who puked all over the habits in the sisters' dressing room when I was too drunk to realise it wasn't a bathroom?'

'She stills thinks it was Alpha.'

'Ha! Fuck him.' Papa leans back on the edge of the tub again, stretching his arms right out. 'Ahhh. I escaped that room immaculate, though, thanks to you.'

'That's what Cardinals are for,' I say. 'Serving their Papas, right?'

'But you really did go above and beyond the call of duty that evening,' he says. 'Friends first, huh? It's just a shame you had to shove me away when I tried to hug you and tell you how great a friend you were.'

'Because you absolutely stank of vomit, Papa. It wasn't personal, I promise.'

'Well. I stink of nothing but chlorine right now. And I'm sober enough to properly appreciate how great a friend you always were.'

I shift slightly in my seat, which isn't easy to do through the jets of water massaging me from all directions. 'Not great enough to save you when it mattered, though, I suppose.'

'It's OK. You weren't to know what Nihil had in store for me. I got very lucky that he chose the wrong room to keep me prisoner in.'

It almost brings tears to my eyes, the idea that Papa might be dead if Nihil had thrown him in the Meaning of Life room instead. (It's 42).

'Anyway,' Papa says, to my relief: I'm still relying on the heat of the water and the shimmering steam to disguise my flushed cheeks. 'Your turn, now! Phil told me. I'm so proud of you – I knew it would be you they chose to follow me. How are you feeling?'

I wish I could match his obvious delight with some of my own. I can't tell too easily in the bubbles, but I'm sure he's leaning forward, waiting to hear my answer.

'If I'm honest, I'm out here to try to work that out,' I say.

If I was confused and overwhelmed enough for Sister Imperator to have sent me out here in the first place, it's nothing compared to how it now feels to admit this to my presumed-dead predecessor. Especially among fragrant bubbles. The setting isn't right for this conversation.

I think Papa is waiting for more of an answer from me, but I haven't one to give.

'It's OK,' he says, waving a hand. 'I think you're allowed to feel about a thousand things at once right now. I presume that's why you've been granted leave from the ministry, anyway.'

'It was,' I say. 'But now the time I was allocated for reflection is obviously going to have to be redirected, isn't it?'

He raises an eyebrow. 'Redirected towards what?'

I snort unwillingly. 'As if you don't know. As if you didn't hear of my arrival and start plotting a weekend full of mischief. All my time is going to be spent entertaining you, Papa, is it not? It must get lonely out here, I suppose I can give you that.'

'Hey. When I heard of your arrival, _Cardinal,_ I did nothing but weep with joy at the idea that my best friend in all the world was going to be so close to me again. I have no mischief planned whatsoever. I spend all my time here – I can do whatever I want with that time. You only have three nights. You aren't entertaining me. I am here to entertain you.'

Papa's idea of 'entertaining' often differs from that of a normal person. And not that I will ever admit this to him, but his idea does intrigue me slightly.

'Whatever your plans are,' I say, with as much confidence as I can muster, 'I'm not interested in them. I've got a lot to think about, and Sister believes I will be thinking about it. I'm here to relax.'

'And what are you doing, right this minute?'

Papa gestures around us, and I find my gaze following his hand. Gazing from the pines of the forest, past the snow, the sauna, and back to the log cabin where I'll be spending the night.

Then back to Papa, hazy through steam, watching me. The first thing I've done, on arrival here, is get into a hot tub. Despite the shock at finding him already sitting in said hot tub, I'm already making an effort to clear my head. He is right.

With a huge sigh, I lean back, letting my hair drop below the bubbles for the first time.

'OK,' I say. 'You win. This _is …_ nice.'

'Isn't it?' Papa smiles.

He's not being cheeky any more: there's real warmth there. And I suddenly feel my chest tighten at the memory of my rage on seeing him here. He's right – we are best friends. _Were_ best friends? I'm not sure. Five minutes of bubbles are not enough to completely clear such a befuddled mind.

'I …' I clear my throat. I don't understand why this is so embarrassing to admit. We really have been friends for years – why should a presumed death have changed that? He has told me many repugnant things in that time without a flicker of humiliation, but then that's just him. I long for confidence like his. Especially now. 'I realise now that perhaps my reaction to you was less than satisfactory. I _am_ happy to see you. I suppose you were just a bit of a shock.'

He merely shrugs. 'You had every reason to believe I was dead.'

'I never truly believed it. I always …' I pause for breath. I'd been about to say _wondered,_ but that doesn't seem right. 'I always hoped.'

I don't think he knows what to say to that. How is he supposed to take it? A compliment, the idea that I never gave up on him after everyone else had presumed he was gone – or an insult, that if I'd had that hope, I'd never acted on it?

But he doesn't say anything to confirm either way. He jerks his head, somehow towards himself. 'Come here.'

'What?'

'Come and sit next to your Papa. Copia's relaxing weekend starts now.'

He can't pat the seat next to him, but he sort of points at it from above the bubbles, and I slowly drift around the edge of the hot tub until I'm settled beside him. Up close, his skull paint is beginning to run, but it's a good look on him. More devil-may-care. Had he lasted another tour cycle, this might have been a welcome change, just to shake things up.

Then he spoils the image by taking my shoulders in his hands and beginning to massage them.

'Papa – what?'

But he shushes me. 'I've learned how to do it properly. I've had a lot of spare time on my hands. Trust me.'

I don't want to admit to him that I've never had a massage before, so I would not know whether he is doing it properly. I also don't _really_ want to admit that, either way, his touch feels incredible. I'd had no idea my shoulders were so tight, but now his thumbs are pushing into them there's a satisfying sort of pain on each side that he's agitating away.

'You _are_ nervous about this, aren't you?' he says.

I just grunt as he stimulates another pressure point. I've never known pain could feel so good. It's like he's fixing me.

I can't see his face, but I know a sly smile is playing about his lips underneath those juvenile sunglasses. 'Don't worry, Copia. Honestly. You simply get to strut your stuff and be sexy for a living. Aside from Nihil's interference, I had the time of my life fronting the touring chapter of the clergy.'

'Most of us just call them Ghost,' I say lazily.

'That doesn't sound as majestic. We are men of the cloth, Cardinal, not spirits. Vessels for Satan, not Satan himself.'

'You definitely are … _oh._ ' It's another satisfied, anguished groan. ' _Porca puttana_ …'

'Hmm.' It's his turn to grunt now. 'I do like it when you swear. It reminds me that you can be fun, sometimes.'

I swivel my head to glare at him. 'I _am_ fun. It's just that I've had to rein it in quite a lot over the years so that _your_ idea of fun didn't get you suspended. Or killed.'

'Hey, sh sh sh … you're supposed to be relaxing.'

In any other situation, I would protest. But here, in this hot tub, with my friend's surprisingly tender touch releasing tension I'd had no idea I was carrying, I can't muster up any anger at his borderline patronising tone. I let my eyelids droop again, and the only noises that escape my lips are small, satisfied moans as he kneads the knots in my neck, shoulders and back into oblivion. He responds with his own little wordless sounds, happy that I'm happy.

We're there for a while. It's only the fear of slipping under the surface and drowning that keeps me from drifting off. I have had a long day, after all, and I've rarely felt as comfortable as I do now. It's an unwelcome sensation when he lets me go, and despite the water, a chill ripples up my back.

'I've done everything I can for you,' he says, giving my shoulder a sharp pat. 'Maybe I'll give you another before you fly back to Italy. Prepare you for cattle class flight – I know we can afford better. I don't know why we insist on flying with the ordinary people.'

'We _serve_ the ordinary people,' I tut. 'But … well. Thank you. I do feel better already, I must admit.'

For the first time in a while, I turn around so that we're facing one another again – and he's beaming.

'I'm glad,' he says. 'I mean it when I say I do want to entertain you this weekend, Copia. I've missed you. Very much.'

I drop my gaze to the bubbles. 'If it weren't for Phil and his cats, you might not have been around to miss me,' I mutter.

Papa is resisting the lure of indulging my self-pity, and I have to admire him. He really is here to have fun. It's always been his priority, at the end of the day, and it shows when he as good as ignores my true sentiment.

'Ah, Phil. Yes. I've learned a lot about Phil since I moved out here. He's rather more into his cats than I ever realised …'

I raise my eyebrows. 'So when we saw Sister Julienne doing the walk of shame in those cat ears …?'

Papa nods pointedly. 'He _loves_ it if you meow when you come, too. Oh – maybe I shouldn't have said that.'

He gives me an exaggerated wink, and not for the first time, I'm left wondering whether or not Papa is fucking with me. Not for the first time, I'm also left with a mental image of Papa that I'm sure he's planted in my head on purpose. He knows how much I enjoy them, even if I try not to let on.

I hate that about him.

'Right,' he says. 'You can stay as long as you like, but I'm pruning up in here, Copia. I'm going inside to get changed … are you hungry?'

I still feel woozy from the massage, but when he asks, I realise how long it's been since I've eaten. 'I could eat?'

'Excellent. I'll start dinner. Like I say, take your time. This is your weekend.'

He places one hand on my thigh, and I start, but he is simply using me to push himself to his feet – although I'm sure he gives me a swift squeeze as he does so. He stands up straight, then steps up onto the ledge he's been sitting on all this time so he can hop out onto the freezing decking.

He's naked. Of course he's naked. And he doesn't try to hide the raging semi he's sporting.

To be fair, I don't try to hide the fact that I notice it. He gives me another huge wink.

'What did I tell you?' he says. 'When you were fitting me for my first suit?'

I force myself to look away from him as he walks right past me. His crotch is level with my head ...

'Does this mean I can guess what you're about to go and do?' I say.

The gesture he performs with his right hand then explains it all. I shake my head. That's another five minutes then, at least, that I need to spend in the hot tub.


	3. My Love, My Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Cardinal goes to get dressed, he discovers what Sister has packed in the other suitcase. The contents don't seem particularly arousing until Papa gets himself involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter! I'm pretty nervous about this one because we're getting slightly smutty now - finally! I saw a gif a while back of Cardi sort of twerking his bum into Aether and knew I had to write something inspired by that, so here we go.
> 
> And if you're into the same sort of TV as I am let's just say 'I've got some feta today ...'

The fear of catching Papa masturbating does indeed keep me in the hot tub for a little longer, but the fear perhaps isn't rooted where it should be. I try not to think about it. I also try not to think about how unsettled my own cock is inside my rat-print board shorts, and I only leave the tub when I'm sure I'm completely soft. It's a good thing I still have such a peaceful landscape to enjoy. As a distraction.

The dash back to the lodge is, predictably, bracing, and thank Satan there isn't a trace of arousal left when I close the back door behind me. I didn't think to bring a towel outside with me, so I'm dripping all over the floor and keen to get to my room to rectify the problem, but there's a rich, creamy smell radiating from the kitchen: herby and tomato-y. I creep, leaving a damp trail as I go, along the hallway to peek my head around the door. Papa is in there, skull paint washed off, fully dressed in black with slightly damp hair. He's humming to himself again, stirring a large pot. Now and then he leans over it to inhale deeply, and each time he does this, he adds a sprinkle of something to the mix.

'I hope you washed your hands,' I say, and he jumps.

' _Merda_ … I almost dropped all my fennel in there, you'd've ruined it.'

It's fun to watch him grow flustered over his cooking. 'It smells divine. What are we having?' I ask, and his eyes sparkle.

'Your favourite.'

 _Fuck._ He's right. He's cooking the white wine tomato sauce I've always loved to have with rigatoni. He must have gone shopping when he found out I was coming so he could get it ready for me – and, I concede, he must also have learned how to cook it. This was one of the Sisters' specialities. I've never even seen Papa boil an egg.

'In that case,' I say, 'I'll be ready in two minutes.'

'Take your time!' Papa says. 'The longer we wait, the longer the flavours infuse. I can just do the rigatoni when we're ready for it.'

It is almost like hearing him speak a language I didn't know he was fluent in. I raise my eyebrows before shaking my head, and rushing off to my room before the puddle I've left in the hallway becomes more of a health and safety hazard than it already is.

I've thrown my towel across the bedroom in my earlier attempt to find my swimming shorts – I have to retrieve it from my pillow. It's almost not worth it, now I've dripped most of the excess water around the lodge. Even so, I ruffle it through my hair to stop it from drying too flat, and wander into the bathroom to drape my damp trunks over the bath taps. I'm fast to tie the towel around my waist. I doubt Papa could be distracted from his cooking right now, somehow, but the slight concern is still there.

It's only when I'm alone that I can give this some real thought. Having Papa pawing at my neck in the hot tub had made some sort of perfect sense at the time, but when I make my way back to my bedroom-for-the-weekend, thinking about it makes it seem like a fever dream. It was mere minutes ago yet already feels like another life, as though it belongs to the time before Papa was dragged from the stage in Gothenburg …

The mental image jars me. I have to dash back out into the hall before I even realise I'm doing it, peering through the doorway into the kitchen. Thank Satan Papa is busy over the top of the oven, humming to himself, and does not see the concern I'm staring at him with that's come out of nowhere.

Thank Satan he's still there, most of all. I spend a few seconds watching him, just to be sure. Just in case somebody storms in to wrench him away from me again.

I creep back to my room, though, before he has the chance to turn around and see me, closing the bedroom door before shedding my towel.

'It's fine,' I whisper to myself. 'No one knows he's here …'

I need to get dressed. If that is where my mind is going to take me when I'm alone, I need to get back to Papa.

The pull of the additional suitcase is, at least, intriguing enough to distract me for now. I'm compelled to open it, and find it full to the brim of neat, folded clothes, fastened into the suitcase along with an envelope. _Cardinal Copia_ is written across it in green calligraphy: I pick it up and turn it over to open it, tearing across a wax seal stamped with a grucifix.

_Dear Cardinal,_

_If the mood takes you, I would very much appreciate it if you tried some of these outfits on. It may seem trivial but your stage look is going to be important in the future and it is, at least, something you can begin to consider now. We'll measure you up properly closer to the time._

_Best wishes,_

_Sister Imperator._

'Stage look'. For when I perform in front of … _people._ I swallow bile as I reach for the first garment, a black trench coat made of what feels like wool, with a silky red lining. It's a beautiful piece, though I imagine it would quickly get warm underneath stage lightning. There's a matching pinstripe three-piece suit, too, and a pair of Oxfords. Socks, silk boxer shorts. They seem like a good place to start, at least.

It becomes apparent that Sister Imperator has simply guessed my sizing: none of the items fit me perfectly, but they are close enough that I get a feel for the look when I'm wearing everything at once. I pose in front of the mirror, trying to look imposing the way the Papas always did when they arrived on-stage. And I don't hate it. I just find it very tricky to imagine myself strutting along a stage in it.

Then footsteps in the hallway. 'Copia? Can I come in?'

I start, and swivel round to make sure Papa hasn't already looked into the room as I've been posing. Thankfully he's shown some respect for a change. 'Yes, if you like.'

I take care to stand like my usual self, facing away from the mirror, when he comes in, holding two different packets of pasta. He's reading the label on one of them.

'I have two sizes of rigatoni so I was just wondering if you wanted the small one or the big one …' Only then does he pay me proper attention, and he brightens. 'Hey. This is a new look for you! Especially the trench coat indoors.'

I dust it down with exaggerated motions, turning vaguely towards the mirror again. 'It is a new look,' I say. 'A new look I am not fully convinced by. Sister Imperator sent me with a suitcase full of clothes for my … _consideration._ '

'Your consideration? Oh! Well, we have to have a look at these, then, don't we?'

Papa's got that bright, flustered look he gets when he decides he wants to go on a spontaneous adventure. He drops the rigatoni onto the bed and dives straight into the suitcase, paying no heed to the painstaking folding a ghoul has no doubt spent hours on. I slide my hands into my too-small trouser pockets as I watch him, barely resisting a small smile.

' _Wow_ …'

He pulls out a shirt, holding it up with wide eyes and a slack jaw. It's white, loose and ruffled, straight off the back of Percy Shelley.

'I wish I had thought of this style for myself. It's …' But he evidently can't think of the words – he just emits a sound that's halfway between a sigh and a hiss, then sheds his own shirt to pull the floaty blouse on, leaving it unfastened at the top. I've seen him in various states of undress over the years (and he me, admittedly), but I am always struck by how smooth and hairless he is – his pale chest visible between the ruffles, he moves to the mirror, gently nudging me to one side. 'Oh _, cazzo, s_ _ì_ … what do you think?'

I put my hands on my hips and tilt my head to one side in a parody of checking him out that I hope masks the fact that I really am checking him out. For once, it is more than his ego making the comments. This style complements him, his flair and his flamboyance.

'It was designed with you in mind,' I say, watching him vogue at himself. 'I daren't even try it on myself for fear that I would come up short in comparison with you.'

'You aren't wrong. I'm keeping it …' He's flouncing around me now, no longer focused on the mirror, but on the way the ruffles move as he does. 'Tell Sister you ripped it on the branch of a fir tree or something. It is mine now. Sorry.'

He's hypnotising. I, too, wish he had thought of the style for himself. I picture the roles reversed, me adjusting his new stage clothes back in the clergy dressing room when he was first made Papa – he, truly, does look divine. I have a desperate need to see him under some stage lights like this, a need which will obviously never be fulfilled.

'Hey –' He's noticed something else in the suitcase. He dives in to pull it out, red fabric unfolding into a fitted, pointed coat. Underneath is a matching pair of trousers, a high-necked black shirt and painted, buckled shoes. 'Yes. This is _you_. Cardinal red,' he says. 'You need something to set you apart from me. This will make a bold statement!' He scoops up the rest of the outfit. ' _Mio caro,_ are these women's pants?'

They do look fucking tight.

'Well,' Papa says. He flings the whole bundle at me: I flinch, but catch it awkwardly. 'As Phil says, the trick is not to wear underwear.'

I raise my eyebrows at him. 'Didn't you?'

He gives me a coy smile, and I almost wish I hadn't asked.

'At times,' he says. 'Not always. Those pants were deliciously silky against my ... well. Junk, shall we say, for now? And loose enough that nobody could see how much I was enjoying them.'

I clear my throat, but it doesn't stop me stumbling over my words. 'There's no margin for error in those,' I say, nodding at the trousers. 'If I – erm – _fly high_ on-stage, the whole world will see.'

'There are ways to reduce the risk. But these haven't been fitted for you properly, no? Sister will have the real ones properly tailored. Just _put them on._ I know they're going to suit you perfectly.'

He looks at me expectantly and I meet his eyes without moving. It takes him a few seconds, but he gets it eventually, and he falters. It isn't that I mind him seeing me undress. It's that I need him to think I mind. He's not my superior any more, and my new position has not made me his, but that does not mean that our friendship does not come with professional boundaries. And he knows full well how I feel about this.

'The big rigatoni, then,' he says eventually, picking both bags off the bed. 'But you are going to call me straight back in here when you're dressed!'

'Fine. I don't understand why you're more excited about this than I am, though …'

He just leaves the room, adding an extra bounce to his walk to ruffle his ruffles.

'Don't you spill tomato sauce on that shirt!' I call after him, and he responds with a wicked cackle.

Oh, Satan. He does look incredibly lovely in the damn thing.

I make sure my bedroom door is fully closed again before starting to take off the 20s-style outfit. I'm not entirely sure if Papa was joking about not wearing underwear, but those trousers are going to be a tight enough squeeze already. With a small sigh, I shed the boxer shorts, and step straight into the skinny legs.

Once they're up past my thighs, I think we're just about in business. I have to carefully tuck myself to one side so that I can fasten up my flies, but when I get to the button at the top there is no way in hell that's getting done up. I do look after myself, but I _am_ almost fifty …

The trousers flare out over my feet but the hem dangles an inch or so from the ground. The shoes do help to make me look less like a child who's had a growth spurt midway through the school year, but I make a mental note to emphasise my short torso and long legs to Sister when I get back.

Hmm … the style, though? So far, so good. I add the shirt, vest and tailcoat, a soft, almost velvetty material that I finger with childish delight. Sister has naturally overestimated the length of my torso, but the overall effect is there, and I must admit I do not hate it. I'm very used to black in my vestments, but Papa is right. I need setting apart and this colour is _me._

'Papa?' I call. I turn to the side, my head still facing the mirror, and admire the curves these clothes accentuate. My _ass_ … wow. I don't think it's ever looked tighter. That could well just be the poor fit of the trousers, but … still. Wow.

'Does this mean you are decent in there?' Papa's voice comes from just outside the door.

'Barely,' I say. 'Come in, I need a second opinion.'

He bounds in, wooden spoon in hand, then stops in his tracks when he sees me. His body seems to stiffen, as though waiting for something to happen, and he stands wide-eyed at me standing in front of the mirror in my ill-fitting suit. I can't read the impassive expression on his face. I'd half-expected instant arousal so this, in a way, is a disappointment.

'Are you OK?' I say, and my words seem to return him to Earth. He swipes his free hand under his eyes, shakes his head briefly.

'Yes,' he says. 'Sorry. I suppose … just seeing you like this. It's made me realise how proud of you I am.'

I am not ready for such sentiment. When Papa received his promotion to Ghost's frontman, he'd been as arrogant and jovial as ever. I look down at my winklepickers, suddenly very interested in the way they're pinching my feet. Another part of my body whose size Sister has underestimated.

'Thank you,' is all I manage, and I hear an appreciative grunt. Nothing more. I keep my gaze down for a moment or two to allow him to collect himself, and when I raise my head he's prowling around me, giving every inch of my body a visual going-over, all emotion forgotten.

'You look fucking good,' he purrs. 'I told you red was your colour. What do you think?'

It doesn't matter what I think when I receive such high praise from him. Even still, I offer up my opinion as he sits down lazily on my bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

'When I get a version that fits, I think this could be a great new look for me.'

His gaze travels to my straining zip. 'I'll say …'

I can imagine the thoughts running through his head, because they're running through mine, too. Similar thoughts ran through the heads of everyone who saw Papa front Ghost, and through most of the clergy, because they shared them amongst themselves. I always wished they wouldn't. I could never bring myself to join in, sure I would be singled out despite the fact that I would have simply been one person amongst dozens.

Papa, too, of course. He was arrogant, and the constant love and attention fed his already swollen ego, but he was never, ever selfish with it.

Even now, even slumped on my bed taking a break from cooking, with no skull paint, he's captivating in his romantic blouse. I spend far too long gazing down at him, and he definitely notices, but he doesn't say anything.

And, suddenly, this whole prospect is overwhelming.

'I can't do this,' I say, letting my hands drop to my sides. 'I am not the right person to be the face of such a prestigious chapter of the ministry. Just look at me.'

'No, I'm not letting you think like that,' Papa growls. I look up at him in surprise, and he's pushed himself off the bed to stride over to me: he grabs me roughly by the shoulders and swivels me around, forcing me to look at myself in the mirror again. 'There is a reason you have been chosen, the same way there was a reason I was chosen. Have you forgotten you're talking to someone who has done this before? I get it, Copia. I know how it feels when such pressure is dropped on you, but I did it. And d'you know how I managed? With your help. You were such a grounding, supportive influence on me and I don't know if I'd have been as successful as I was if not for you. So if you can have that effect on a complete idiot like myself, imagine what effect you could have on _your_ self.'

This, again, is too close to the territory of emotions.

'Papa,' I say slowly. 'I do not want you to think the sentiment isn't appreciated, because it is. But in this instance, that isn't what I meant.'

'Oh.' He falters a little, and there's a twinge of guilt. If only he could have come out with such kind words in a different situation, I could have indulged him. 'Then … then why are you not the right person?'

'Because I'm not _sexy,_ ' I sigh. 'All of you, so far, have had such – fierce, strong presences, and our fans go positively feral over you. But look at me. I look like a child dressing up. People don't _fancy_ me, Papa, they want to baby me.'

The hands that are still gripping my shoulders squeeze me, and the reflection of Papa meets my eyes with ferocity.

'I am looking at you,' Papa says. 'And what do I see?'

He lets me go, then squats to the floor so quickly he might've been knocked out. By the time my eyes catch up with him, he's kneading my left thigh with his hand. 'I'm looking. Here. How the fuck does such a skinny shrimp get thighs like this?'

Oh, no. The blush starts to creep upwards. 'Well. You could have had them too if you hadn't turned down every single one of my invitations to go cycling.'

'That's because you always asked me when I was hung over, still drunk, or yet to extricate myself from a sibling of sin's tangled limbs,' Papa tuts.

'Not my problem. I would argue that the views from the summit of Passo San Marco outweigh the …'

'That's beside the point! What I'm trying to say is that when you're showing off your luscious legs like this, I can think of nothing other than how much I want to … sink my teeth into them.'

Now that he's said it, that is exactly what I want, too - but his face is far too close to my cock for me to be entertaining images like this. I watch him in the mirror again as he shuffles around my legs so that he's kneeling behind me, then he takes me by surprise by giving my ass a sharp spank. I hope my resulting squeak is lost in his words.

'This ass, Copia! I assume this is from cycling, too? Because mine has never looked quite so enticing, even when I was young.' He's fondling me, ever so gently, and there's definite twitching around the front.

'I told you. You could have come with me.'

'Yes … I'm starting to wish I had. Although even if I did have your buns of steel, I would have had to – ahem – _enhance_ other areas if I wished to wear pants as fitted as these …'

Oh, Satan, here we go. I'm so quiet I can hear his deep, intense breathing as his hand slides between my legs, lingers on my taint, and comes to rest against the cock I so carefully tucked aside earlier.

'I have always been jealous of this,' he breathes. 'You wear these pants, and the whole crowd will either want to be you or be with you. Some of them will even be confused over which it is.'

I'm so tight against the fabric of the trousers that his touch feels more intimate than it should through material. He's being gentle still. I watch him in the mirror as he strokes me, and he moves his head to the side slightly so that we can make eye contact again. He gives me the tiniest smile that, somehow, is full of kindness and warmth. He's not being purely suggestive, he's being … oh, I don't fucking know. The man knows me too well, I suppose, is all I can say.

And he's getting me hard. This combination of subtle stroking and considered compliments is everything I need right now. But there's nowhere for my erection to go.

He can still feel it, though. And he runs his fingertips along my length one last, luscious time before straightening his knees to stand upright, almost at my height, right beside me.

'You don't think you're sexy? You're wrong, Copia. You are, honestly, one of the most beautiful men I have ever met.'

I have to resist an intense urge to beg him to continue. There's a not unpleasant stretching sensation inside my trousers, the head of my cock now slightly uncomfortable but stimulated against the fabric, and it needs a release.

'OK,' I say evenly. I can deal with this problem later, if I can just shut the conversation down for now and get him out of my hair. 'Just because I don't skip leg day, and just because the Dark Lord happens to have blessed me with a _slightly_ more hefty package than you, it doesn't mean that translates to sex appeal. I don't know what to actually do with myself on a stage. I'm awkward. I'm not like you.'

'Hmm. Well, you do not have to be like me. Be like _you._ Many people will find your awkwardness incredibly sexy, and I am speaking from experience here.' He steps back from me with his hands on his hips, and even that gesture exudes lust. Or is that just my slightly distracted mindset right now?

'You have some great ghouls lined up, huh?' he says. 'You are a team on-stage. Do not be afraid to use them.'

I cast my mind back to the ministry, where I imagine Aether is having a whale of a time playing with Per and Marie. A fleeting moment of concern for their welfare in close proximity to Fire is quashed by the knowledge that Aether takes his 'soft father' position in the clergy very seriously, and Fire would be a complete fool to challenge him on that. 'They are a good bunch,' I admit.

'Precisely. So involve them in your exploits! They will love it, and so will your fans.'

'Involve them like … how?'

It doesn't feel like a loaded question until Papa, once again, finds my gaze in the mirror and wiggles his eyebrows at me. He adopts his stage walk to circle around me, right back to the front, where he blocks my view of the mirror. I can smell the shampoo he's just used but before I have a chance to take a big, barely-conscious inhale he's bending forward, and his ass comes into contact with my crotch.

_Oh, hell._

He says absolutely nothing. Just curves the base of his spine first one way, then the other, so that he's rubbing my already semi-hard cock with his ass cheeks. And the pressure I'm under as my erection tries to grow brings real tears to my eyes.

My breath hitches: I try not to let on, but he catches my eye again, and backs into me a little. I'm resisting a reaction but there is no way he's missed how turned on I am. That is, of course, exactly why he's doing this. And that's why I'm allowing it. That's why my cock is crying out for release, leaking against my trousers and inevitably against Papa's. That's why I have to search for something to steady my legs that are slowly starting to struggle to keep me upright, and in a fit of desperation I clutch Papa's hips.

His own thighs must be burning, but he takes my grip as a cue to move faster – slightly. He's playing the long game. He must be enjoying the whimpering I now can't contain. Resistance is getting me nowhere, only delaying the release I sorely need. My cock is irritated yet deliciously sensitive to his touch, and I'm moaning and giving minuscule thrusts in rhythm, the tears spilling over when my efforts don't come to anything.

'Papa …' I gasp. 'Please …'

'Please what?' He feigns innocence, but pushes his ass hard against me for a second, and I groan.

'I need to finish … this is killing me …'

He starts to move again, this time gyrating around my inside thigh where my poor, trapped cock kicks at the change of rhythm.

'Then finish,' he breathes. He's turned on, too: I can't see for sure from the angle we're at, but his voice has turned husky. 'What's stopping you?'

I close my eyes against the whole situation. I don't know what's stopping me. I'm so fucking close, but I can't …

'I'm certainly not going to stop you. This is your weekend.'

'I know …'

'Then fucking _come._ '

I hate that I do. I hate that that's what does it, that his command is what releases the hot white fluid into my brand-new suit trousers. I hate that when I finish crying out, open my eyes again, and register where I am, he's still rubbing himself against me and he has the most deliciously devilish smile playing about his lips.

Only when he sees I'm coming around does he stop moving, finally standing upright and stepping away from me so he can inspect the damage. I'm breathing heavily still, adjusting to the grounded, rational sensation of no longer being turned on beyond belief and trapped by my own clothing, but he's panting, too, as he folds his arms and tuts.

'That suit,' he says, 'is brand new, Copia. You disgusting boy.'

I just gape at him and he grins, so bold that I don't even feel the need to pretend I'm not checking out his crotch to see if he's hard again. It's difficult to tell with the loose, dark trousers he has on. Unfortunately, it is very easy to tell that I've just ejaculated into my own.

'You … fucking …' I seeth, but Papa turns away before I have chance to think of an insult for him.

'I'll dish dinner up,' he calls, over his shoulder. 'You'd better get changed, hadn't you?'


	4. Dum Dum Diddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papa's got good at cooking, and Cardi is impressed - although not as impressed as Papa is at his conduct in the bedroom. If only Copia were ready to confront his feelings around that. Instead he loses himself in a memory, and starts to realise how happy he truly is to have Papa back.

I wait until I can hear him bustling about in the kitchen before I sneak out to the bathroom with an armful of the clothes I brought for myself. The sticky mess I've made of myself needs rinsing off with the shower head, and I bundle up the trousers to remind myself that they need to go in the washing machine, not back on my person any time soon.

I feel slightly sick, looking at them now. How can one's feelings around something be different when you are turned on and when you are not?

I am just about dressed when Papa yells through. I know that if I yelled back, I too would sound normal and composed, but somehow I still cannot believe he is just cooking food like nothing has happened. This sort of thing truly is nothing to him. It always has been.

The food, in all fairness, looks incredible. Not only does it smell just like it does when we have it at the ministry, Papa has taken great care with the presentation, too. The table in the dining room is laid out correctly, with indigo napkins, wine glasses, and a taper burning between us. It is the only light in the room, and as I sit down, I notice he's put music on, too. Just loud enough to register, just quiet enough to blend into the background.

_But I think you don't know that I exist_

_I'm the quiet kind, woah-oh …_

ABBA. It's fucking ABBA again. Just because we're in Sweden … but even though I think I'm irritated, I'm smiling. It is music about romance and longing but without angst or too much misery. It suits him, somehow.

It's just a shame I can barely look him in the eye when he sits down in front of me.

'You needn't have waited,' he says, when he notices I haven't touched my dish yet. 'You must be ravenous.'

I had been. But the events in my bedroom had rather distracted my stomach. It's only now that I have food directly in front of me that I've remembered how much I need to eat some.

'I was waiting for you,' I say. 'Some of us have table manners.'

'Hmm. Rude. And after I've taken the trouble to so faithfully recreate your favourite dish, too …' But he's smiling. He expertly uncorks a bottle of wine I hadn't realised he'd brought with him from the kitchen, then pours me a glass. 'I almost forgot. Here.'

'Hmm. Dolcetto. A good choice,' I say, raising my glass. ' _Cin cin._ '

Papa isn't often concerned with what he drinks, only that he is drinking something. He raises his own glass to swirl it around with some amusement, but the movement still gives him an air of sophistication. 'Thank you. And would you please stop with the surprise whenever I get something right?'

I curl into myself a little. 'Sorry.'

'No need to apologise. I do understand. Historically I haven't been the most domesticated person in the world, but now my pace of life has changed …' He pauses for a drink. ' _S_ _ì_ _._ ' He licks his lips in appreciation before lowering his voice. 'You did so well in there, by the way.'

I've been wondering when he was going to bring that up. Immediately, I can feel my cheeks heating up, and I fend off a reply for a moment by taking a mouthful of rigatoni. He's patient, though, and he's watching me, waiting. I swallow hard.

'You …' How to phrase this? We both know what happened, I suppose. There is no need to beat around the bush. 'You stimulated my genitals with your butt cheeks and I ejaculated,' I say carefully. 'It is hardly an achievement …'

'Oh, it is,' Papa says. 'For you, it is, and we both know it.'

He starts on his own food. He could have eaten without me – it is getting late, after all – but he hasn't. He's waited. And in the meantime, he's managed to unwind me with both a massage and a full-blown orgasm.

It just doesn't seem real, somehow. As though being teased to a climax by his ass through my clothes doesn't count. Whenever I imagined coming in his presence, it was, more often than not, inside him …

I shake my head, concerned about where my thoughts have ventured. 'I suppose it is different,' I say quickly. 'Out here with no one else around.'

'Exactly,' Papa says. 'The only real hangup you had has been removed from the equation, no?'

I haven't thought of it like that until he verbalises it, but he isn't wrong. Unfortunately, though, the removal of one hangup has only opened the floodgates to more than I can count, new problems I have never had reason to consider in real terms before.

Problems I don't want to think about, here with him and his delicious meal. I meet his eyes. He is definitely expecting a response. I just point down at my plate with my knife.

'Don't think I'm surprised,' I say, 'but you really have done a wonderful job here.'

I can tell my deflection has irritated him, but he makes a real effort not to show it. 'Well. Like I say. I've had a lot of time to learn new skills. You'd be surprised at what I've developed talent in, I think,' he says.

'So you haven't put any effort in specifically for me? This is just your normal fare, now?'

He stabs at his food to gather up a forkful of pasta. 'Don't flatter yourself. I didn't make the rigatoni from scratch tonight.'

'Ah. I see. I'm worth pasta sauce effort, but not fresh pasta effort.' I pause, pretending to consider this. 'Sounds about right.' And I stuff another huge forkful into my mouth so I don't have to say anything else. I truly do not know _what_ to say. I'm still reeling from his mere presence, let alone his audacity and his newfound cooking ability.

But he, too, has to eat. So the silence we share then is neither empty nor awkward, just comfortable. Almost homely, even.

Sister was right. The setting could not have been more different from the ministry.

And he looks so comfortable here. It isn't as though he ever looked out of place back home – far from it. Particularly after he had become Papa, he exuded an aura of quiet intimidation that could have convinced a newcomer he was truly in charge. But it wasn't his natural state, his default setting. Most of the time, it wasn't until he could track me down of an evening that he could drop what I, and few others, knew was his façade. The performance he put on for fans extended to the fans within our own ministry.

Then he would find me.

One night, in the library, I was poring over a book about the Templars for my own interest. I'd presumed the place to be deserted due to the ridiculous hour at which I always came in to browse – then one of the most ancient tomes we owned slipped from its high security shelf and landed on the floor with a dull _thud._ I swivelled, hand at my chest, to see it resting there, fortunately in one piece but expelling huge quantities of dust. I hadn't been to that area that night, and I'd heard no one else enter the library after me.

Spirits, then?

'Hello?' I said, not leaving my seat. No way.

Whoever it was answered by sliding another book, equally big and equally fragile, onto the floor. This time, I shrieked. Terrified for the potential damage, terrified in case some alarm were about to start wailing, and terrified that I was in the library alone with a malicious spirit of some description. It had to be evil, after all, if it would risk damaging such precious volumes …

The laughter that erupted then certainly was evil. Papa, shirt collar unfastened and hair tousled, sauntered out from around the back of the shelves.

'You absolute _pussy_ , Copia,' he said, taking advantage of my enraged silence as I tried to find the right swearwords to scream at him. He did bend down to rescue the books, though, which softened me up a little.

'Knowing how much you love pussy mitigates that as an insult,' I said, and he grinned.

'Who says I was trying to insult you? It was just very funny watching you shit yourself. I'm sorry.' He came to rest on the chair beside mine, then sighed and swung his legs up to rest his feet on the table. 'I needed to release my frustration somehow. I've had a fucking _horrible_ day.'

'I have barely even seen you.'

'Exactly! Meeting after meeting after f-u-c-k-i-n-g _meeting,_ ' he said. 'I've just come back off tour, I need breathing space before I can deal with Imperator's shit.' He leant back in his chair to allow himself a mighty inhale and an even mightier exhale before affecting Sister Imperator's lofty accent. ' _What are your plans for the EP, Terzo? Well, we always do covers! We need you to write an opener, something melodic and bombastic_ … the fuck does she think I tried to do on Meliora?' He shook his head at Sister Imperator's apparent stupidity. 'Anyway. We've been a touring outfit for years! _Something_ has opened every one of those shows. I just wrote Spirit like that because that's how the Old One wrote Con Clavi Con Dio, and how Secundo wrote Per Aspera Ad Inferi …'

'Clappity clap music,' I said.

Papa started drumming along to that rhythm on the table. 'Aha,' he said. 'But we perhaps need something more …' He changed the rhythm to something steady and pounding, giving three little raps at the end of each phrase. ' _S_ _ì_ _?_ '

'Excellent,' I said. 'Now all you need is the rest of the song to go around it.'

'Well … precisely. So that's tomorrow's job.'

'Dare I ask where you're spending tonight?'

'You just did,' he said, with a wink: he then frowned and glanced at his watch. 'In fact, I am supposed to be meeting Omega in less than half an hour –'

' _Omega_?' I was taken aback. They were close, but I had never thought it was close like _that_. Papa chuckled at my shock.

'Yes … he has not been particularly happy of late, though, so I very much doubt I'm in for one of _those_ nights,' he said. 'Which is a shame, really. I would love to be on the receiving end of whatever a big, angry Omega wanted to dish out to me …'

I cast my eyes back down to my book. 'Let me know how that one goes.'

'Oh, I will. But we both know where I would rather be.'

OK – so perhaps there was some discomfort even when he was with me.

I shifted my gaze as much as I could without turning my head to give him the satisfaction of knowing I could see him. He was staring at me intently, and I knew he wanted to hear something from me that I would never say. He was not wrong in what he said. But this was the sort of knowledge that we only understood we knew. We didn't speak about it. In fact, had he been anyone but Papa Emeritus the Third, I wouldn't have been able to believe his audacity.

It was that, really, that irritated me into thinking of a response, but he beat me to speech.

'On the next leg of the tour,' he said, in a much lower voice, as though we were in danger of being overheard in this vast, empty library, 'you should come with us. I am sure the clergy could spare you, even for just a week or so. We all share hotel rooms when we travel. No one would think twice …'

'We are not having this conversation,' was all I said.

And to his credit, he shut up. I raised my head to find him looking sheepish, feigning a sudden interest in my book. Good. He ought to've been ashamed of himself.

'That,' he said, pointing at the cover, 'has just given me an idea.'

'Hmph.'

He had clearly been expecting me to engage more than this: he shuffled on the table.

'I need to go, anyway,' he said. 'I need to get ready. I've been in stuffy offices all day, and I bet I positively stink …'

He gave himself a tentative sniff under the arm, but he didn't stink. He never stank. I am fairly sure the man does not possess sweat glands.

'What're you doing tomorrow?' he said, swinging his legs off the table and hopping to his feet.

I shrugged. 'If the weather is as nice as it's supposed to be, I might go hiking. Early on, before it gets too hot.'

If he hadn't just crossed such a line, he would have found some mocking yet affectionate remark to make about my obsession with the mountains in place of a healthy interest in sex, but he knew I no longer had that sort of patience with him tonight. I could see him struggling with the temptation, but he did not let it win.

'All right,' he said, 'don't stay up too late, then. You look exhausted.'

'This is how I always look,' I pointed out, and he smiled. He bent down, wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and kissed the top of my head. I had barely registered what he'd done before he smoothed my hair with his hand as though he'd just messed it up.

'No, it isn't. Goodnight, Copia.'

I just smiled, and raised my hand in farewell. I couldn't have mustered up the motor skills to do or say anything else with the sensation of his lips still warm on my head.

Yes. We both knew where I would rather have been as well. And it was a wonder our friendship had, thus far at least, survived this shared secret.

That is the Papa, I realise, I am sitting eating dinner with now.

He doesn't have to wait until he is in the right company. He has no professional concerns when he is not presenting himself professionally. In getting him back, I've regained the Papa I got to know, on a personal level, years ago. Pre-Papa, even.

'Do I still have to refer to you as Papa?' I ask him. He's not paying me any attention any more, no doubt lost in his own train of thought, so I repeat the question when he raises an eyebrow. His mouth was too full to respond anyway. But it's a mistake: he almost chokes when he bursts out laughing.

'You have been,' he says, when his airway is clear and his mouth empty. 'But you know you can call me _whatever_ you want.'

'Piece of shit?' I offer, and he nods.

'By all means. It wouldn't be the first time someone has called me that.'

He hadn't mentioned dessert, but when he takes our empty plates away, he returns with a tiramisu. I have to wonder whether Papa is labouring under the assumption that I miss Italy despite having only left there a handful of hours ago.

Stupid of me. I realise, with a nasty wrench, which of us is actually missing Italy.

'Should I open the dessert wine?' Papa asks me, when we've already started eating. I shake my head.

'Any more wine for me and I will land face-first in my tiramisu,' I say. 'I'm exhausted.'

'Well, if at any point you fancy some, I'm building up quite the cellar,' he says. 'There is a literal cellar, in fact. It wasn't used much before we got hold of the place, though, so it is rather creepy. But if you can brave the ghosts you are welcome to any bottle that takes your fancy.'

His words trigger an uncomfortable stirring in the depths of my mind. I look at the bottle we've not yet finished, and let out a long exhale.

'Papa?'

'Mm?' He doesn't look up from his food, and I sigh again.

'I don't think I want to talk about whether or not I can brave Ghost just yet.'


	5. Knowing Me, Knowing You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long day. Cardi's asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, but someone else can't drift off quite so easily. When Cardi stumbles upon his wide-awake companion, conversation gets a little deeper, as do other things. Ooer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again - cannot emphasise enough how tricky and squicky, albeit enjoyable, I find it doing chapters like this. Again, much like for Sister Marie Says at  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/26308768, I must thank the lovely CopiasWitch for their b-read and feedback.
> 
> You can tell I'm sexually attracted to feelings and desire above anything else, can't you?
> 
> PS - many, many apologies for the Google Translate Italian, as ever.

I am out within about five seconds of pulling the covers over myself. Papa insisted on doing all of the washing up, and the last thing I'm aware of is the sound of him splashing away in the sink.

It feels like only about five seconds later, too, that I jerk awake again, sitting bolt upright with a snort. I can't remember what I was dreaming but I'm breathing as though I've been chased down by a creature of nightmares: usually Nihil, for me. Not that I have those nightmares often, but if I do …

My head coming to terms with the darkness, and the unfamiliar smell of the room I've found myself in, I check the time on the small clock beside my bed. I have been asleep for approximately two hours. Wonderful. My heart is still racing and my throat is raw, undoubtedly from a combination of flying, drinking wine and snoring. Accepting that I am in no fit state to drift back off to sleep just yet, I haul myself out of bed with the intention of getting a drink.

It's always a little nerve-wracking, wandering through a place you don't know of a night time. It's even more nerve-wracking when one of the rooms you expected to be in darkness is glowing with a wavering light. The smell hits me a moment later: fire?

It's another moment, one of pure panic, before I remember that the living room has a fireplace. Papa must have lit it, and from the brightness of the light I would assume he is still sitting before it.

I don't know if I dare investigate. What might he do to one sleepy, suggestible Cardinal? What might I enjoy slightly too much? Hoping I haven't made enough noise to disturb him, I creep past the door and into the kitchen, where I pour myself half a glass of water and drink the whole thing down in one breath.

Despite myself, despite any trepidation I feel at the mere idea, I want to go and bother him. Most of all I want to know why he is still wide awake enough to have lit a log fire, knowing those things will burn for at least half an hour or so if not tended. Sleep apnoea, like me, perhaps? That would be straightforward enough. I could say a quick hello and head back to bed.

If it is something more that has awoken him, I realise, I want to make sure he is OK. I must remember that he lives here alone, with no prospect of returning to us safely. Whatever turmoil I am turning over in my own mind at the moment is nothing much in comparison to the mental load he must be bearing, no matter how upbeat he seems.

When I cautiously peer around the door, he is indeed stretched out on the rug, with his back to me, in front of a roaring fire – a fire he is definitely maintaining. He has no intention of going to bed in the near future. He even has a glass of wine in one hand, and the rest of the bottle that we didn't finish over dinner is on the hearth, keeping warm.

Next to that bottle is another glass. Empty. He's waiting for me.

No … not waiting. He has probably retrieved a glass just in case. He wouldn't want to appear anything other than hospitable, even if it is the middle of the night and even if he thought I was asleep. Thus far, has he not tended to my every whim? Even those whims I did not realise I had?

I do not want to startle him, though. He has his legs folded to his left, his weight on his right hand, and if I make him jump I envisage his glass of wine going everywhere. I cannot see his face but his posture is far away, in another realm.

'Papa?' I whisper.

It's enough, over the crackling fire. He turns his head, and in the second before he registers me, the frown he's wearing is unsettled.

For just the one second. Then he's bright, he's perky, and he's beaming up at me. 'Copia! Sorry, did I wake you?'

'No … no, of course not. You're not even making any noise. I just went for a drink, what are you doing up?' Another thought strikes me. 'Have you even been to bed yet?'

It doesn't surprise me when he shakes his head. 'I don't do much sleeping these days,' he says. 'I am used to being awake at this time. Don't worry about me.'

Telling me not to worry about him is not going to stop me doing it. I move towards him, noticing he has at least changed into a plum-coloured satin dressing gown that will do nothing to protect against a cold Swedish night, but that is, admittedly, rather beautiful. I feel underdressed in my flannel pyjamas, although I had been appreciative of them and their comfort as I was snuggled down in bed.

He pushes himself up so he can pour me a small glass of wine when I come to sit crossed-legged beside him. His dressing gown is, I notice, extremely short. 'Here. Let's finish it off, shall we?' he says, and I take it without question.

'Do we need to toast to anything?'

He considers for all of two seconds. 'To Sister Imperator sending you out here to me. Unwittingly, nevertheless, but still …'

He leaves the rest unsaid, instead lifting his own glass before drinking from it. I can hardly contest this. I drink, too, to stopper my stupid mouth before I open it and say something clumsily emotive.

'Sister Imperator,' I mumble, and Papa nods.

'So what disturbed you tonight?' he says. 'If it wasn't me?'

'Breathing problems,' I say. 'And unfamiliarity, I suppose. I always find it tricky to settle the first night in a new place.'

'Hmph. That, or your mind is preoccupied.'

He says it like he knows the feeling. Which, I suppose, he must.

'Is that why you're still awake?' I say quietly. 'Does your mind not let you sleep?'

Papa gazes off into the fire for a moment.

'It is inevitable, I suppose,' he says. 'Isn't it? When you change your life so drastically and can't ever return to the one you once knew?'

He has me there. I just sort of sink into the floor with no idea how to respond. It isn't a situation I can imagine myself in, nor do I want to. The fact that it is Papa's reality is something I am trying to ignore for as long as we are here together.

Although perhaps the fact that he has brought it up is a hint that he would like to talk about it?

'I don't know,' I admit. It is, at least, honest. I do not think false optimism could trick him – his bullshit detector is rather good. 'I can't pretend to understand how hard you have had it out here. But I can understand that it _is_ hard …'

'Cardinal, we are not going there tonight,' Papa says briskly. 'I was merely stating fact, I do not want you to worry about me.'

This is the second time, in as many minutes, that he has told me this, and it grows less effective each time. 'Whether or not you _want_ me to worry about you is irrelevant,' I say. 'Now I know you're living alone in the snowy wilds of Sweden, you realise I will always worry about you, yes?'

'It isn't your job any more …'

'You literally just called me Cardinal!' It doesn't bother me, not in the slightest, but I am irritated by the irony of what he is saying. 'It's ingrained into us both, _Papa._ I will always be concerned for your wellbeing.' I exhale hard through my nose, observing Papa's frown for the first time. 'You know you would feel the same, if it were the other way around.'

 _Ha._ I have him there. If he can keep pulling emotional punches to throw me off, then two can spar like that – and score points. He is faltering, his lips parting without sound. It takes him a moment or two to think of words.

'I feel the same anyway,' he mumbles. 'At least you could be reasonably convinced I was beyond worrying about. I have been here this entire time knowing you were alive and possibly not well. Even right now I am worrying about how flushed you look … will you please move away from the fire a little?'

I hadn't noticed until he says, but when he does, a heatwave washes over my entire body. Long pyjamas by the fireside _sounds_ like a cosy concept, but in reality I am starting to feel lightheaded and nauseous, my skin prickly. I move to my left with an ungainly shuffle, and Papa smiles his approval over his wine glass.

'Not a risk for you,' I point out, nodding at his flimsy, yet elegant, purple robe. He observes it as though checking it out in a shop, wondering whether or not it might suit him. He must know that it does.

'Yes … I did buy it with that in mind,' he says. 'Can you tell? Lounging luxuriously in front of a log fire on a fur rug is one of the small pleasures that keeps me sane out here alone. I cannot do that in full length pyjamas, I would melt.'

Making the most of the new space I've given him, he arches his whole body like a cat. I don't know whether it is deliberate, but the resulting ripple in the folds of his dressing gown reveals rather an eyeful – though I am, of course, not surprised by this.

I think it is his boldness that inspires my own. 'What about the nights you don't spend alone?' I say, in a bit of a rush, in case I panic and back out of the question. I'm lucky he understands my garbled words.

'You really want to know, don't you?' he smiles.

I shrug. I don't want to seem too interested – in a sense, I truly am not. 'I'm just curious,' I say. 'You must be able to blend in here quite easily in order to … meet people? No one outside the order has seen you without skull paint.'

'You are right,' says Papa. 'I do use that to my advantage. But nowhere near as often as you are imagining.'

I hesitate. I need to summon up another bout of boldness before I speak again. 'Is that because you are too busy with Phil?'

Papa flicks his gaze towards the door, perhaps checking that Phil hasn't materialised to eavesdrop on what is being said about him. He raises his glass to his lips and takes several long, slow mouthfuls of wine.

'Again,' he says, when he is satisfied that were are alone, 'nowhere near as often as you are imagining.'

'You don't need to reassure me. I am not your … _keeper_.'

'I am not trying to reassure you! I'm telling you the truth!' He is trying to sound irritated, but he isn't succeeding through fits of laughter. 'It is not the same up here. Different pace of life, etc. etc. I no longer feel those needs the way I did back home, surrounded by willing flesh all the time. I am having to learn to be content with myself.'

He stretches again. It's done for effect, I know: he is moving the way he would move onstage, with fluidity and elegance, except in the gown the impact this has is more intense than ever.

_How many Ghost fans would kill for this view?_

“Content with myself”. After years of crowds, and the enthusiastic adoration of siblings, ghouls and ghoulettes, I do not know how he can talk about this adjustment with such nonchalance.

But still, I am watching him. And still, all I can focus on is that robe, or rather that gap in that robe, and the little trail of hair that runs down his lower abdomen, leading my gaze to his exposed cock, still miraculously soft despite the hushed, smooth tones in which we are having a thinly veiled discussion about his sex life …

Suddenly, I am aware of eyes on me. Horrified at myself, I do not even bother to check whether or not there are. I simply stare sideways into the fire, reminding myself of the immediate present before I melt away into a hypothetical future.

Over the crackling of the logs, there is a sorrowful sigh.

'I don't mind you looking,' Papa says softly. 'You know I don't mind you looking.'

He may drive me insane as I cover for his exploits that tear up the ministry. He may fill me with envy when he uses his charm to get his own way in almost any situation. He may be an infuriating, frustrating _stronzetto._ But I cannot deny that he has found an extremely considerate way to say _I am not the one with the problem here._

I close my eyes hard against the light and the warmth that is becoming far too intense.

I know, if I turn back, that he will still be there. Waiting. As long as it takes for me to surrender, he'll be waiting. And the only reason I am resisting is …

Who knows? I don't think I do any more. I cannot articulate it to myself right now. Not when I am here, with him as good as offering himself up to me with no one to judge me or tell me _no._ Not when the lure of him there, barely dressed, is sending that tight, stretching sensation through me that I am sure means I am beginning to strain against my pyjama bottoms, but I don't dare check for fear that _he_ will notice me checking and therefore notice how self conscious I am about how hideously, insanely attracted to him I am.

So I bite. I open my eyes and turn away from the fire to look at him – and he is hardening, too.

'You don't mind me looking?' I say. I raise my head. 'Bullshit. You fucking _love_ it.'

'Hmm.' The corner of his lips quirks upwards, and he reaches a hand down to stroke himself a couple of times. 'It seems so. But then you can hardly talk, can you?'

I should have known it was so obvious. I'm still cross-legged, I might as well have myself on display the way he does. My chin drops and he does the very thing I was trying to avoid – he senses my discomfort. He stops his luxurious lounging to sit up on his heels, raising himself right in front of me.

'It's OK.' His face, seductively coy until now, softens. 'It's OK …'

When he reaches for the top button on my pyjama shirt, I allow him to. He doesn't say anything and nor do I. His forehead is creased, face the picture of concentration. When he has undone every button it is all I can do to shift my arms to help him remove the shirt: they're almost shaking.

'That's better,' he says. He has shed his previous purr, now speaking from a place of pure concern. 'You were looking warm.'

He is right. Exposed to the air, my skin is able to breathe, and the hot, prickling sensation has vanished.

'Could you kneel up for me?' Papa says, and I do it without question but with a lurch in my stomach. I have an idea of what he has planned now, and I am not entirely sure I have the guts to let him go ahead with it.

I should help him shuffle my pyjama bottoms down to my knees, but I'm in a state of mild shock. I note the little hum in his throat as he releases my cock, and again when he lays eyes on my thighs, taut from the effort of keeping me upright.

' _Bellissimo_ ,' he whispers, and I am not sure if he means for me to hear. He raises his voice to speak directly to me. 'Sit down, if you like.'

I sink to my heels somehow, which is amazing considering that I seem to have lost most of my motor skills. I am only aware that Papa and I are now on a level, staring into one another's eyes, and I am almost naked, almost fully erect, and wholly at his mercy.

He makes the humming noise again. 'OK?'

I can only nod. _OK_ is not the term to describe my feelings right now, but then there are so many of them colliding with one another that there probably isn't a term for them. I think the best way of expressing them, right now, is to remain still and allow Papa to do whatever it is he is going to do.

His hands find my waist, and my breath catches in my throat, but he doesn't stay there. Despite his care so far, he is not here to romance me tonight. He drops his left hand down, then slowly traces his right around to my navel, leaving only his fingertips touching my skin. They slip further still and come to rest at the base of my shaft, where he folds his whole hand around my rapidly swelling girth.

'Very good,' he murmurs, as my eyes droop shut. He slides his hand up my length and back down, then again. 'How are you feeling?'

Still, I cannot express the complexity of my emotions. I nod.

'Like you say,' I tell him. I am almost stuttering. 'Very good …'

It is not untrue. And I let it override me as Papa leans down, slips his hand beneath me so he is cupping my balls, and takes the head of my cock into his mouth. I do not know why the warmth surprises me, but it does, and the groan I give as a result is more instinctive than conscious. He hums his approval and it sends tight vibrations all the way up my length.

I have to pause, mentally, to assure myself that this is indeed happening.

He squeezes my balls in a rippling of his fingers at the same time as he begins a slow circling of my cock head with his tongue, keeping the movements in tandem so that each sensation is mirrored in the other – at my whimpering he slips his tongue flat against me to allow more of my shaft inside him. It draws a sharp intake of breath, a subconscious upward thrust … it startles him but he rides it out. I feel his plan was to take me in slowly but now he senses the intensity of my arousal he has foregone that. I'm stretching towards the back of his throat, then he pulls upwards, then pushes back down … I fight the urge to wind my fingers into his hair.

' _Cazzo_ _s_ _ì_ ,' I gasp. 'Papa …'

My eyes are still closed so I am not ready for his free hand to return to my waist, just to rest. How is the touch so warm, even as we are sitting by a fire? It takes me a moment to notice he is stroking me there, too, the sensation almost lost to the hot beginnings of my release. I raise my own hand, link my fingers through his, and he squeezes tight.

 _Fuck_ … the urge to thrust is growing stronger by the second but the fear of making him gag quells it enough that I settle for more, barely conscious whines in my throat. I don't need to beg him for what I want. He reads my body, lowers and raises his head in a quicker rhythm that he matches with the hand that now has a firmer, rougher hold on my balls. The damp suckling is just audible over my own moans. I'm squirming over how close I am. I have become far too easy to please. This night, this whole day, has been too much. And I am seconds away from showing it.

' _Sto arrivando_ ,' I gasp. It is a warning, but he doesn't heed it. He continues sucking as though he hasn't heard me and it is, indeed, mere seconds later when I empty into his mouth, feeling him tighten around my jerking cock as he swallows down every drop of my release, his undulating tongue riding out my climax with me. ' _Mio caro …_ '

The hand at my waist strokes me down from my orgasm, and I keep my fingers through his. It is a need, an anchor to this experience that I am not entirely sure, even now, is real.

But I open my eyes, and he is pulling off me, and he looks up at me with wide eyes and lips slightly parted, out of breath. Looking at him now I do not know how he managed to maintain such an awkward, hunched position during the act. He sits up on his heels again, and we are back face-to-face, back to gazing at one another with matching, heavy breaths. His hair is haphazard, his robe, too. He is hard, the head of his cock glistening with precum.

'You … took it all,' I say stupidly. He nods. What can he even say in response to that? I nod down to his erection. 'Can I –?'

'No,' he interrupts me, taking hold of his cock. 'You just relax. Do not worry about me. This will take all of thirty seconds.'

'You are that … aroused?'

He meets my eyes with a new intensity. 'Your pleasure is mine, Copia.'

I am not even sure I would have been able to coordinate myself enough to maintain any sort of repetitive movement, if I am honest with myself. I am still weak, still strangely confused by the new clarity I feel after such a frenzy of hazy arousal. I'm watching him as he shrugs his robe, not quite off, but behind him. His eyes close and his hand is already pumping furiously between his legs, his head visible only for the fleeting half-seconds he jerks downwards. If he had not just brought me to my own orgasm, I know, the sight of him taking control of his pleasure this way would have me hard in no time at all. I am mesmerised. I want to moan for his release, but he is silent and I feel as though saying, or doing, anything at all would be an intrusion. This feels, more than his ass against my crotch, more than his lips around my cock, incredibly intimate. A privilege.

Then he breaks his silence with a deep, shuddering groan to accompany the stripes of semen he sends up his stomach with his orgasm. He jacks himself through it, back arched and face contorted, before he finally slows his movements to a stop, slumping towards the rug. I am impressed that none of his spillage made it onto the floor, or his robe. I am disgusted by how hot I find the vision of him covered in it.

We observe one another, a space full of unsaid words between us. He is breathing as though we have just summitted a mountain.

'I would kiss you,' he says. 'But I don't think you are ready for the taste of your own cum quite yet.'

I almost lean in anyway.

Almost.


	6. Money, Money, Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Copia wakes up in a bit of a mess - physically and emotionally. After having his feelings played around with since his arrival in Sweden, he decides it's about time he sits down and sorts them out. He has a job to do, after all, and Papa is proving to be nothing but a distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How tenuous are these chapter titles?
> 
> Today England goes into lockdown.2 which means no bonfire for the first time in years for me :( Hoping the US situation works out and all, of course. Here's a distraction if you want one!

Cazzo. _Papa …_

Sì … molto bene, mio caro …

_My hand scrabbles downwards, fighting warm, sticky layers of fabric. The whole area is sticky. My cock is hard, straining against something, when I finally find it and begin a rapid stroking._

È così caldo.

Non mi interessa. Non mi interessa … _tu_ sei cosi calda, mio caro.

 _I think he is touching himself. I cannot focus to see, but the knowledge is there. Beautiful. I just_ feel _it. What did he say to me earlier, about my pleasure being his? The reverse is true, too. There is nothing, at least nothing I can conceive of, that turns me on more than the idea of Papa's hard cock, Papa's cum spurting forth, Papa's cries of ecstasy, whatever has got him there … I press my face into warm darkness, screw up my eyes. Raise my hips so my hand has more room to move, up and down._

Così caldo ... sei vicino a venire, sì?

_Not this. If he tells me to finish, I will. I jerk my hand faster, taking some pre with me for lubrication._

Ah, sì ... va bene, mio caro. Vieni per me. Va bene …

Cazzo. _Fuck. My cock jerks and I groan into the soft darkness, biting down on it, pressing my upper body downwards and my ass to the sky as I come, hot and wet. It is dizzying and sweaty and when it is over …_

Fucking … _shit._

I'm all too aware of the sensations around me, so much so that they feel too much to handle. My face in my pillow, my entire body cocooned in blankets. It's humid and my breathing is becoming laboured. I still have one hand down the front of my pyjamas and the whole area is sticking together with my own drying semen.

At this rate, there will not be a clean pair of pants left for me to wear home on Monday.

I withdraw my hand, at least. It's not a pleasant sight. I'm still not used to the frequency with which this is happening this weekend.

_I don't think you are ready for the taste of your own cum quite yet …_

Perhaps not transferred to me from Papa's tongue, but the memories of my arousal are still just about present enough for me to tentatively push the tip of my tongue towards my hand. Hm. It is, as I have been led to believe, salty. Not the worst flavour in the world. I would not rush to consume it, though. Not unless I had good reason.

I'm rational enough now, though, to be disgusted by my spontaneous action. I spend another second or so grumbling into the pillow before pushing myself upright, glad of the fresh air on my face as I realise just how moist my entire body is. How I managed to stay awake through such a wave of sweat … _urgh._

And was I dreaming about Papa?

No, not dreaming … they were thoughts, that was all. Thoughts I was not entirely in control of, but thoughts all the same. Drawn from the tryst by the fire, vivid enough to have caused the shamed wet patch I now have to conceal from him.

The footsteps outside my door are an unwelcome reminder of how tricky that might be.

'Copia! Good morning, starshine!' There is silence for a beat, then my door slides open, and Papa's grinning face appears. 'Ten minutes 'til breakfast, OK?'

I bury my face back into my arms. 'Can I shower first?'

'No time. This will be best fresh, trust me. And it would actually be better if you showered afterwards.'

I can't show him that this might be a problem. The best way to deal with this, I decide, is to remain with my head in my folded arms so as not to let my frown betray my frustration.

'You must have slept well,' Papa says. 'Perhaps tomorrow I should let you sleep later … sorry. I just thought you might be hungry.'

Well, I am.

'It's OK,' I assure him, raising my head again. 'I'll see you in a moment or two. But, erm –' I need to ask. He might not suspect anything. Clothes do need washing, after all, whether they're covered in cum or not. 'Do we have a laundry room here?'

I should have known. He raises one eyebrow, matching it with one corner of his mouth.

'There is a washing machine at the far side of the kitchen,' he says. 'You can put a load in before you leave, if you like.

Fortunately, for me at least, that is where he leaves it. I wait until I hear him in the kitchen again, then hurry to the bathroom. Or I try to – my body is a little stiff, and despite my hunger, there's nausea, too.

Somehow, I cannot reconcile this morning's Papa with the Papa from last night. I have always known him to be a sexual being, perhaps more so than anyone else I have ever met. But until last night, I had only ever been on the receiving end of the postmortem, and by that point he was either hung over and grumpy or buzzing with satisfaction as he relayed the dirt on ghouls and siblings that I never felt I ought to have been privy to. Never mind that most of the clergy has slept with most of the rest of the clergy – I did not partake, so I would not have discovered any of this if not for Papa and his war stories.

But to have him undress me, suck me, then pleasure himself as I watched …? The memories do not marry up with the stories. The night was too intense for that animated little diva I call my friend. He cared too much about my experience and very little about his own. The man in the kitchen right now, the man whose number one goal in life is to wind me up like a jack-in-a-box even after I thought he might have died, cannot be the man from the fireside.

But then can _I_ be the same person I was last night? When that Cardinal had no qualms, felt no shame whatsoever, about engaging in such acts, where the morning-after Cardinal is genuinely close to tears as he hastily washes off the evidence that even just the vaguest memories of Papa's leaking cock were overwhelming …

The surge of emotion passes, though, allowing me to return to the bedroom and dress without incident. I find Papa in the kitchen, busy with a frying pan, the unmistakable aroma of pancakes filling the room. He has piled the countertop with fruit, syrups, yoghurt, and a plate of crispy bacon.

'American style,' he says, by way of greeting. 'There is nothing – _nothing –_ better than a huge pancake stack the morning after a ritual, Copia. I am dishing out the gritty survival advice now.'

He holds up his pan and nods to a clean plate, which I pick up to let him slide the first pancake onto. 'We will eat in here, if that's OK. I can only perfect one at a time.'

'Thank you.' How to start, though? Blueberry compote, or bacon and maple syrup? 'Just how many pancakes am I to expect?'

'You tell me when you are full. Although all the bacon there is all the bacon I have right now.'

There is enough on that plate to feed the whole of Juve bacon sandwiches at half time. 'I don't think that will be a problem.'

Bacon and maple syrup, then. And the pancake is fluffy perfection – I have to bite back my surprise at the delicious job he has done.

We eat in a round, each of us starting a fresh pancake once the other is just over halfway through their old one. I keep my position by the toppings as Papa expertly flips and eats at the same time.

'Why don't you make a batch, then keep them in the oven on a low heat?' I say, but he waves the idea away violently.

'Much nicer this way. I'm sorry it's a little awkward …'

'Oh, I don't mind at all,' I say quickly. 'I was only thinking it might make your life easier.'

'I don't mind, either. In fact, there is something very homely about the whole process.'

'Well, yes. Except that we never have pancakes at the ministry.'

'But the ministry is no longer my home. This is. And here, we can have pancakes whenever the _fuck_ we want.' He emphasises the point by cramming the entire rest of his current pancake – about a half, plus several blueberries – into his mouth. I can see the regret in his eyes straight away.

'Don't rush it,' I chuckle. 'I am not well practised with abdominal thrusts.'

I wish I hadn't used the word 'thrusts', but it is too late to take it back. To his credit Papa doesn't even smirk. Perhaps because he is trying not to choke, but I will accept this as a win. Eventually, the pancake melts into a floury paste that he can swallow, and I am no longer concerned for his airway. Enough so that I can begin to irritate him again.

'So we could eat pancakes for every meal, but I am not allowed to shower?' I say. 'Can you tell me what you have planned for today, at least?'

'I _can_ … though I am not going to. I would have thought it was obvious.'

The first thing that springs to mind is, inexplicably, sex. I do not voice it. Besides, if that were his plan, I would insist on showering first …

Unless he wants us to do that together? Denying me my shower so that he can join me in it? Or better, the giant bathtub?

Wait – _better_? I am not sure where that came from. I am not sure why I'm rank-ordering full body washes in terms of how pleasant they would be to share with Papa. I need to divert my train of thought before it becomes evident on my face. 'Well, it isn't. I can't think of anything worth doing that you need me dirty for.'

'You can't be that dirty, you were in a hot tub yesterday evening,' Papa tuts. 'And although I wouldn't _object_ to a lovely, dirty Copia, that isn't the point. It is simply better if you shower after we have eaten. If you really have come here to think, then where better to do it than in the sauna?'

Oh! I had forgotten about the small wooden cabin in the trees the moment I'd laid eyes on Papa, but he makes a good point. I am about to express this before I remember, again, that I am not supposed to act surprised at his good ideas.

'Another mad dash in the snow in my swim shorts, then,' I chuckle. 'I think you might just be a sadist.'

'Or a masochist! I do not tend to even bother with the shorts myself. Extreme temperature changes are meant to be good for the muscles, are they not, Fabio Aru?'

I ignore his little dig. Naked Papa in the snow. Is he being suggestive on purpose?

'Will you be coming in with me?' I ask him. I lower my voice, as though we ought not to be sharing sauna space at all, and he cannot miss it, but he answers matter-of-factly enough.

'Only if you want me to. I can entertain myself for twenty minutes at a time, Copia, I'm not completely empty-headed.'

Leaving the decision with me. _Cazzo._ Whatever I say is going to sound loaded, no matter what I mean by it.

So which would I rather? If it truly is up to me, do I want to absorb the steam in the company of the naked man who sucked me off last night, before we have had a chance to talk about it, or without him?

'Come with me,' I say. Whisper, actually. The sooner I indicate I need to discuss this, the better, no matter how much it is making me want to squirm. 'I do need to think, but I think I need to talk, too.'

Papa turns off the heat. Slides the last, perfect pancake onto my plate.

'I agree,' he says.

*

Even though I did my best to wash the worst of the damage off before breakfast, the quick blast under the shower head is a refreshing relief. Papa allows me to go first, so when I arrive in the sauna I'm afforded time to sit, head back, enjoying the warmth after the frosty run over with only a towel wrapped around my waist. I am sitting on it now, a barrier between my inevitably sweaty hamstrings and buttocks and the wooden bench that many others will use after me. I try not to consider who has used this before me, and what for. If Papa lives here, after all, it could be anything.

I'm slightly lightheaded, but I take deep breaths, inhaling the woody aroma as well as the heat. I do not know why we cannot install a sauna in the ministry somewhere. I know Ghost take one on tour. I have heard the stories. I cannot help but wonder if I will ever become bold enough, as their frontman, to create some of my own.

No. The best thing about this, although I can't explain it even to myself, is now I can be naked without feeling like it is a _display._ I was fully clothed yesterday, and so was Papa, when he manipulated my erection with his ass, and that was far more sensual than me simply sitting here.

Even when he joins me – indeed without so much as a wash cloth to cover himself outside in the snow – it stirs only the smallest puddle of arousal, and there is no physical evidence of it. I have seen him naked many times. This is simply another one of those times. He even smiles at me, not my crotch, when he sits on the bench opposite mine.

'Fucking good, this, is it not?' he says.

'It is. I felt a bit off-colour when I first got up, but this is helping.'

'Hmm. A bit sick?' I nod. 'That means the massage worked,' Papa says. 'Did you start the timer yet?'

He nods into the top corner near the door, where there is a large egg timer. I hadn't noticed it. 'No … do I need to?'

'You have only been here a few minutes, haven't you? It will be fine.' He gets up to turn it over, and the sand that had been at the bottom flips to the top and begins to trickle back down again. 'There we go. I can't return you to Imperator if you're a sloppy sack of wrinkled skin, can I?'

'Perhaps that is your plan. I get the impression you are not in a hurry for me to leave.'

'Huh.' Papa settles back onto his bench, wiggling around to find the best position for the wooden slats against his ass cheeks before leaning backwards and stretching his arms to either side, the way he had done in the hot tub. 'And you _are_ in a hurry to leave?'

'I could have run a mile when I first saw you,' I say, with a sly smile. 'It was like seeing a … well, I won't finish that sentence. But now? Perhaps not. I fear Monday will come around too soon.'

'I know what you mean. And I … I wonder if that is what you wanted to talk to me about.'

My smile drops. Yes – it is. But 'wanted' perhaps isn't the right word. I am not looking forward to this conversation in the slightest. It is with discomfort that I remember my miniature breakdown earlier this morning. I cannot let this slide. It must be addressed if we are to enjoy the rest of the weekend in harmony.

But _Satan_ in hell, if Papa isn't rather delicious as he watches and waits.

'Yes,' I say. 'I suppose it is. I …'

But I do not know how, or where, to start. I am very lucky to be having this conversation with the man who knows me better than probably anyone else in the world.

'Last night,' he says, under his breath. 'I wanted to say. You were wonderful.'

I raise my eyebrows. 'Papa, I did nothing. Again. I simply found you and things escalated from there, all under your direction. You even jerked yourself off afterwards.'

'Yes, and why do you think I needed to do that? Because you were wonderful. I know how hard it must have been for you to let me suck you like that.' I nod slowly, pressing my lips together. 'But you did it. And I don't want to be presumptuous, but I would say you enjoyed it as much as I did.'

He is giving me my 'in'. He knows I need one, that I can never get straight to a difficult point under my own duress.

'I did enjoy it,' I say. 'Very much. Well … you saw that …'

'Tasted it,' he cuts in. He raises his fingertips to his lips and licks them.

'Tasted it. Yes.' I clear my throat. 'Which was sort of amazing, to your credit. I tried to give you chance to let me finish elsewhere …'

'Oh, I know you did. But I wanted to see you through to the end, so to speak. It was incredibly fulfilling for me to be able to do that for you.'

I do not think he is _trying_ to turn me on. But I'm working very hard to keep my mind away from memories of last night.

Oh, Satan. How do I begin to explain, in words, the complexity of my feelings surrounding this? How can I justify what, to him, is going to look like a u-turn on how I felt last night?

'I'm glad,' I say. 'And very flattered. But I think … honestly … I don't think we should do anything like that again.'

He looks at me, eyes wide. Saddened, confused and terrified all at once, perhaps experiencing something close to the foggy, mixed-up set of emotions I am trying to deal with.

'But … but I thought you wanted …'

His words trigger a huge surge of guilt in me.

'No! I mean … yes. Papa, I did. Last night. I promise.' I'm rushing it all out, the words bleeding into one another: I take a deliberate breath to steady myself, plan what I'm going to say next so that it makes sense. I can barely look at him in the resulting silence. 'You haven't done anything I didn't want you to do. That isn't what I'm trying to say here. What I _am_ trying to say is … well. You know why I came here. And I feel that, while your efforts to extend your hospitality are noble –'

I had more spiel, but he scoffs here, and I'm cut off abruptly. He can be rude, but I thought he had a line, at least. 'What?' I snap.

'Get you,' he says. ' _Your efforts to extend your hospitality_ … stop talking like a prick, Copia! This is how you did it last time, too. You can't just be honest about how you feel, can you? You have to dress everything up in … in _official_ jargon.'

What a stupid, petty thing to lose his temper over. It isn't the first time I've seen him lose his temper over something stupid and petty, but it is the first time it's been directed at me. A red hot rage begins to bubble in me, overpowering the warmth from the sauna and the guilt I'd felt at apparently upsetting him.

' _Official jargon?_ I am _trying_ to be honest about how I feel, but you are just … stamping all over it. Let me speak, Papa. For once in your life take on a viewpoint that isn't your own!' I cry. 'You want me to be honest about how I feel? All right. I loved it when you gave me that massage last night. I loved it when you made me fucking jizz in my pants. I loved it when you sucked me off by the fire and I _especially,_ for some reason, loved watching you pull yourself off afterwards. And I feel like shit about how much I loved all of that, because … because we are not supposed to be doing this, are we?'

I can feel a strong, solid heartbeat drumming at my windpipe, and it's so uncomfortable I have to stop talking even though I have much, much more to say. I leave it open so he can think while I pause. He knows damn well what I am trying to get at, and his befuddled frown isn't fooling me. But that isn't the only thing about him that catches my attention.

I should say I can't believe it, but that would be a lie. Of course I can believe it. He thinks of little else, at the end of the day, and it is only natural that his body responds to the activity in his mind. And with the empassioned list of sex acts I just screamed at him, it does make sense.

'I can't believe you,' I snarl even so, more to his erection than to him.

'It's completely involuntary,' he says, with a shrug. 'I told you I like it when you swear. And I told you how much I love doing those things for you. You just made me think of them all over again.'

Thank _Satan,_ for once, that I am too angry to be turned on, too.

'I shouldn't have invited you in here,' I say. 'I should have known it would turn into … _that._ '

'It doesn't have to turn into anything. I can take care of this on my own,' Papa says.

'You are not masturbating in the sauna.'

He actually whines. 'I can't concentrate on anything else when I'm horny!'

'You are _not_ masturbating in the sauna.'

'So you _don't_ like watching me masturbate now? Which is it?'

I sigh, throwing my head back against the wooden wall. ' _Per l'amor del cielo_ …' I grumble. 'Papa, it is hot and sticky enough in here as it is. The last thing a sauna needs is your … _mess_.'

'Then give me your towel or something,' he says. One hand is distractedly massaging underneath his shaft and I turn away from him.

'No! If you are really so horny you can't have a civilised conversation, then you can go and … finish yourself off outside. I can't talk to you straight when you are like this.'

This, at least, resonates. He pushes himself to his feet, gives me one last, mock-withering look, then strides out of the door and out of sight so that I can't see him out of the window from the angle I'm sitting at. Thank Satan. I need to maintain my bubbling fury, and watching him come would undoubtedly put something of a dampener on that. I am, at least, reassuringly soft. An indicator that I mean every word I have already said, and every word I will say on his return.

Because I do. I may be confused about my feelings but this is a line I have drawn before. I know I can draw it again.

He isn't long, and he's shivering when he opens the door a crack just to lean in.

'Hello. You will see I am now completely flaccid,' he waves a hand downwards. 'So I'm just going to leave you alone now, huh?'

'Papa,' I say. 'Did you masturbate in the snow?'

He turns his head, and I have to wonder if he's looking for the exact spot to show me, like a proud puppy. 'Well … you told me to go outside.'

I raise an exasperated hand to my forehead. 'It was an expression … if I'd thought you really were going to go and freeze your dick off, I'd have ordered you back into the cabin. Come inside, you must be frozen.'

There is definite relief on his face as he slips back into the sauna. 'Thank you,' he says. 'I was going to go back inside and leave you with your thoughts for a bit, but –'

'Sit down,' I say. 'There isn't long left on the timer, anyway.'

He perches opposite me, a child waiting outside a headteacher's office without being entirely sure why they are there.

'Look,' he sighs eventually. 'I'm sorry, Copia. I wasn't being fair. I should've let you say your piece without being a little bitch about it.'

'It's OK,' I say. He raises his eyebrows, but I find I've surprised myself as much as him, and I simply continue. 'I forgive you. I think you understand, anyway. In fact I don't think I even need to explain any more. Let's not put ourselves through that heartache, shall we? We are … simply …' I still have to search for the words I know he has already heard. 'We are not a good idea. Circumstances may be different now, but they are arguably even more complicated than they have been in the past, and …'

My voice breaks, and it almost makes me jump. _Merda_. If I am crying, he will not take me seriously, and I need him to understand.

But he is waiting, with lips and fingertips pressed together. He doesn't mind me taking my time. I allow myself a handful of deep breaths. There are tears, but when I speak again, my voice is level. 'It is not personal. Merely circumstantial. I'm sorry …'

I scrub at my eyes and Papa leaves his perch opposite me to come and sit by my side, one arm around my shoulders and his other hand on my arm. Funny, that our nudity should hold no inherent eroticism in circumstances like these.

'You don't have to apologise,' he murmurs. He's actually rocking me, ever so slightly. 'I do understand. I know you think I'm an idiot, but I'm smart enough for that, at least.' He leans in, kisses the top of my head. 'Please don't cry. I hate seeing my favourite Cardinal in the whole world cry.'

Of course, being told not to cry is the universal signal for the tear ducts to go into overdrive. 'You don't think it's _cute_ , then?' I sniff.

He squeezes my arm. 'There is absolutely nothing cute about you being upset, Copia.'

More than anything else, it is those words that let my head droop against his shoulder, and I let him cuddle me like this until all the sand from the top half of the timer has run into the bottom.

I also wait, for several minutes, for him to notice this himself.

'Oh …' He might have been dozing off from the absence of focus in his voice. 'Look. Time for a break, I guess. Are you ready to roll around in the snow?'

I raise my head with a frown. 'You are serious, aren't you?'

'As a heart attack, as our dear Imperator might say,' he says. 'I told you, it's good for the muscles.'

'And I'm telling you, if I throw myself straight out of a sauna and into a pile of snow, _I_ might have a heart attack,' I grumble – but I am fairly sure my biggest fear is the fact that once I peel away from Papa (and our skin being fused together like this from sauna sweat does not revolt me the way it definitely should) I'm unlikely to find myself in such close proximity to him again. Perhaps ever.

But we do, indeed, rush out from the sauna and into the snow. And it is every bit as biting and unpleasant as I knew it would be. I even have to remind myself to breathe through those first few nasty seconds when my chest compresses at the sudden temperature drop.

'What is the science behind this being good for you?' Papa gasps beside me.

'I think,' I say, 'in terms of exercise, it reduces inflammation and helps muscles to repair more quickly.'

'I knew you would know. That doesn't stop this feeling fucking horrible,' he says. Despite being the one who came up with the idea, he pushes himself up and out of the snow first. ' _Ugh._ Right. I am going to go inside, have as hot a shower as I can bear, light a fire, and start lunch. You will be pleased to know I have perfected the meatball gravy they use in IKEA,' he says. 'You stay out here as long as you like. The food will be ready for whenever you want to eat it, and I think it is high time you got around to some of that contemplation Sister sent you away for, huh?'

I fold my arms. My whole body is tense and shivering, now, and this doesn't really help. 'I can't help but think that that is precisely what the sauna has been placed here for, which rather ruins it.'

'I would not be surprised. I do tend to leave it with complete clarity of mind,' he says: then he seems to struggle with himself for a moment. 'I'm sorry I have been such a distraction. I know how daunting the task ahead feels when you are first entrusted with it.'

'You didn't seem daunted, as far as I recall,' I say.

'A mask. That was all,' Papa sighs. 'In reality, Copia, I was terrified.'

For the first time this weekend, I am truly struck by the reality of how his stint in Ghost ended. And how, therefore, it could potentially end for me.

I swallow bile as I make my way back to the sauna, turning the timer over again before sitting back on my soft, welcoming towel. Finding Papa was a fluke. None of us have any idea what has happened to the others, not even Papa himself. Who is to say that in two years' time I, too, will not vanish mysteriously?

 _No_ … I have to physically shake my head at my own thought process. Surely Nihil could not expect me _not_ to anticipate that, having seen it happen to my predecessors?

And Nihil himself fronted Ghost back in the 60s, and he still works for the ministry well beyond retirement age. That could be me. I have to lean towards that outlook, not the other. I will not be able to do this job to the best of my ability if all I can think about is the fact that I will die …

Death, indeed, does feel very far away here. I might hire a sauna back in Italy to write my album in, in fact. I can almost forget there is a world outside, beyond the snow and the firs. All I have here is the warmth and my own words, swirling around my mind. I can forget about dying.

I even forget about Papa, for the most part, as words fuse with melodies and harmonies and I hum to myself. I wish I had brought a notebook and pen in here with me. I did not even bring a notebook and pen to Sweden. How silly, really … when I thought I was coming over for contemplation, I forgot the extent of what I could contemplate. My mind was too clouded by anxiety, but now, here, I am open to everything else about my task. This is the part that I may actually enjoy thinking about, the part that will ultimately sell records and fill venues and make the money that pays my wages. That is what Ghost is all about, is it not? And, at the end of the day, my promotion to frontman is nothing more than that. A promotion – my job. Not life and death. Work. I may be worried about it, but when I come off a stage, or leave a studio, I can go back to being myself. Leave work at work.

It is the other stuff, truly, that makes life worth living.


	7. That's Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They. Finally fucking kiss
> 
> And what transpires afterwards isn't as good as it should be because our poor Copia is so repressed and shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning of sorts: this isn't a great depiction of sex, but I know that, you know that, and the characters know that ... OK?
> 
> PS I don't know a thing about wine can you tell

I do wonder if I should offer to cook dinner one night, but Papa always beats me to it. We enjoy pizza tonight, “because it's Saturday” as he reminds me, but he has made it from scratch so it does not feel like Saturday night junk food. As we sit finishing dessert I do not feel bloated from excessive grease.

'Papa,' I say, 'I will pay you back for all of this.'

He just smiles. 'I do not give to receive. You must have realised this by now.'

I shuffle in my seat a little, but try to ignore the implications of what he's saying. 'True. But you are putting so much effort into my wellbeing, I feel I need to start reciprocating. So I must insist that you go to bed at the same time as me tonight.'

His smile drops. 'When are you going to bed?'

'As soon as we have washed up. I am still exhausted from travelling yesterday. In fact, I can guarantee I will only get my energy back about half an hour before I leave for the airport on Monday morning.'

Papa holds up a balled-up fist. 'Two things,' he says. 'One –' He unfurls his index finger. ' _I_ am washing up. Not _we._ And two –' He unfurls his middle finger. 'If I go to bed, I will simply lie in bed getting steadily more frustrated. I told you, I don't sleep very much these days.'

'And you will have fallen into bad habits which are preventing you fixing your sleeping pattern,' I tell him. 'Look, if you go to bed and can't drift off after half an hour, then I will fully support you in getting up and sitting by the fire again. You don't want to associate your bedroom with not being able to sleep. But if you can _try_ …'

He rolls his eyes, but it's in jest. 'You remind me so much of this Cardinal I used to work with,' he says. 'He thought he was my mother, too.'

'Oh, shut up,' I say. 'You've been looking after me all weekend, this is simply me trying to return the favour.'

'All right. When you put it that way, I suppose I can try. Your opinion on what's healthy and what isn't probably counts for a lot more than mine anyway.'

'I don't know. I wouldn't complain if you kept plying me with gelato,' I say, stirring the melted dregs of my second bowl.

So, once I have dried up the few bits of crockery that won't fit on the draining board once Papa has washed them, we say goodnight to one another and we turn in.

Of course, I know this will not last. If he really cannot sleep, it will be a waste of his time to lie in bed getting steadily more frustrated. So I plan for that eventuality as well. In fact, I anticipate it.

So when the inevitable happens, and he leaves his room in his satin robe, I am ready. This time it is me sitting on the rug, dressed only in my underwear in order to fully appreciate the soft fur on my skin. I have indeed braved the wine cellar to retrieve a pinot noir, which is breathing by a roaring fire and two wine glasses. I haven't poured any for myself yet. I am waiting, knowing it won't be long, with my legs stretched out in front of me, leaning back on my hands.

His face, on seeing me, tells me he was not expecting me to be here at all. Much less here, spread out, with a drink at the ready.

'Copia?' he says, and I nod.

'That's me. Wine?'

When I hold up the bottle, I see something in his eyes click.

'Yes,' he says, 'please …'

I start to pour glasses for us both as he makes his way across the room. I tuck my legs underneath myself to make room for him and he sits in front of me. We are in the same positions as we were last night. I hold out his wine, and he takes it from me.

'Sleep apnoea again?' he says, and I shrug.

'Something like that. Brain working overtime again?'

He bites his lip. 'Something like that.'

I put the wine bottle down and settle back onto the rug with my own glass. 'It's OK. I am proud of you for trying.'

'So proud you're offering me wine. I don't know if that's a good thing, but I will take it, under the circumstances.' He gives a little wriggle of his eyebrows. 'You should know I don't do this every night. Only on special occasions.'

'Special occasions like … me?'

'Like you.' He gazes into his glass. 'What are we toasting to tonight?'

I have to savour his uncertainty – it is strangely fun to feel as though I, for a change, am holding some sort of power. I recall the way he swirled his wine at dinner the night before, and I'm compelled to imitate him. Jokingly, of course, but I imagine I do look quite sophisticated.

'How about the same toast as last night?' I offer. 'To Sister Imperator – however unwittingly – sending me here. To you.'

He smiles into his own glass. 'OK. I can … perhaps justify toasting to her one more time.'

'Good. In that case –' I hold up my glass. 'To Sister Imperator. And our reunion.'

He clinks his glass against mine. 'Sister Imperator and … us,' he says, and we drink.

I take rather a long drink, in fact. And when I set my glass on the hearth, I sit still, gazing across at Papa. We're close together, a mere lean-in separating our faces, but I don't know exactly how to close that gap. I need my "in", the sort that Papa is normally able to give me, but tonight … I have to create one for myself.

He keeps his eyes on me. Perhaps he is helping me more than he will ever realise.

'Papa?' I say. I'm so quiet I'm amazed he hears me.

'Mm?'

Again. I take a few seconds to savour the wondrous anticipation in his eyes before I move forward, slide a hand into his hair, and press my lips to his.

It stuns him. I feel him freeze at my touch but I know he is simply taken aback. That is all. I would be, had I been in his position. Had I been rejected before lunch then kissed after dinner by the same person. And, sure enough, it is only a second or two of stillness before he kisses me back. Both of his hands find the back of my neck, fingers threading together, and he lets our lips part. I wait for his tongue – because somehow I feel he ought to be the one to explore that avenue first – but he merely maintains a slow rhythm before pulling away from me with a small, wet sound, and I cannot suppress a whine. To my utter humiliation.

He sighs, deeply. 'Why the change of heart?'

His breath, warm on my face. His hands holding me close to him still. I do not even open my eyes to reply. 'My heart didn't change,' I say. 'I just … decided to listen to it.'

He pushes his forehead into mine. ' _Oh, grazie al cielo …_ '

And he surges forward again, and this time we're grappling for one another with desperation, each of us pushing ourselves into the other as our tongues duel ferociously. His robe is askew and I find myself fighting to have my skin on his. I don't feel as though I can be touching enough of him at once, no matter how hard I try. I slide forward, push myself up so that I am kneeling over him, then lower myself again, and the hardening bulge in my boxer shorts comes into contact with his cock, fully exposed between the folds of his gown. This is almost happening too easily. I grind my hips downwards and he grunts into my mouth.

' _Cazzo_ ,' he says, against my lips. 'You are moving fast tonight. So assertive …'

'Making up for lost time, _mio caro_ ,' I say. I pause to kiss him, and some new, feral part of me takes his lower lip between my teeth and bites down. The _hiss_ he gives makes my cock throb. 'I have been stupid. Cowardly, even. I only hope you can forgive me.'

'I do not think there is anything you could do that I would not forgive …'

More kisses, hot and clumsy. I grind into him again, enjoying the moaning it draws from his throat and into my mouth. He slides one arm down my back, squeezes my ass cheek, and there is real twitching in my underwear again. This combination of sensations is … _cazzo_. Already, it is almost too much to bear. I pull away from him again, and this time I am fighting back tears.

'I have missed you,' I gasp. 'So, so much.'

We're both breathing hard, our eyes locked together, and even through the stillness in the space between us he is massaging my ass. I breathe into the moment, relishing his touch.

'How much?' Papa says.

'Wh – what?'

'I want you to show me how much you've missed me, _mio caro_.'

The pet name, almost as much as the touching, swells my desire. I lean in to kiss his neck and he tilts his head back with a long sigh. For the first time, I shift back a little and slip a hand downwards, fumbling for his cock – he is fully hard now, and my own underwear is blossoming with a warm, wet patch. I rock my hips forward again, letting my own moan tumble forth into his neck.

 _Show me how much you've missed me._ I do not know, exactly, what this means in universal terms. I do know that he is giving me agency to interpret this with my own meaning.

He is coming apart beneath my thighs and it is a delicious honour to be the one undoing him.

'Lie down,' I say. I surprise myself with my directness but he obliges immediately, letting his gown float to the rug either side of him so that his entire body, save for his arms, is exposed to me. ' _Porca troia_ … you are so beautiful, Papa. So … so, beautiful.'

He groans to himself, eyes closed, and absently lets a hand drift to his cock, pushing his lower back off the ground. I make to tell him off for his impatience but I cannot bring myself to do it. He is a work of art, lying down like this, and if having a photo of him were not such a dangerous risk I would have asked him if I could take one.

It rather makes the process of removing my own damp underwear seem clumsy, but the relief and freedom is welcomed. I kneel before him, surveying him as I give my cock a tentative stroke. This feels like the wrong way round, and the thrill is somewhat terrifying.

'I want you naked,' I catch myself saying. 'I want you to feel the fur on your back as I fuck you, Papa.'

So I really am going to fuck him.

' _Sì … grazie …_ ' He mumbles. He starts to shuffle his sleeves off. 'Copia, dominance suits you …'

'Shh …' I am still trying to gather my thoughts. When he has discarded his robe, he rolls himself back slightly, raising his knees to his chest so that his ass is tilted up towards me.

_Fuck, Papa. I have missed you._

I almost push straight into him, and it is only my own excited leaking that reminds me I ought to do something to ease the friction. Positioning myself on my knees at his entrance, I tease my cockhead with my thumb, sighing even at the light contact with such a sensitive area, then spread my pre as far down my length as I can. I reach out to finger Papa's hole and he moans along with my every movement – that is enough.

_I have missed you so, so much._

Driven by longing, I lengthen over him, and guide the head of my cock inside him. He's tight and he tenses up and I stall for a second, just letting him adjust, before daring to push further in, sighing as the pressure envelops me. Pushing in, hardly daring to believe that this is real, pushing in … then easing myself back out, savouring the sensation of moving inside him. I give another thrust and he gives a sharp gasp in response.

'OK?' I say. Nervously. But he nods. His eyes are closed, his head back, and he's bracing his shins against my shoulders.

'Go on,' he breathes. 'I'm fine.'

His permission is everything I need. I thrust again, and again, and I don't feel in control of my body any more as I find a rapid rhythm and stick with it, my arousal surging with surprising speed. Papa is trying to roll his hips up to meet mine as I push downwards but I'm moving too quickly for him to keep up. Our moans mingle and I cannot tell who is making what noise, I am just slamming into him, no rational thought left, only the desire to fill him to the brim after so, so long of trying not to even entertain the idea …

And I do, at the top of a thrust, my entire body freezing then shuddering as I grunt through my release. I barely note that Papa stops moving too, savouring the sensation of my hot cum spilling into him, until I have opened my eyes to see him there. He has one hand around his cock and he's jacking himself with a vengeance, wrist twisted awkwardly between his own legs, and when he notices I haven't moved in a while he opens one eye.

'Can you …? I mean … I am almost there … do you have anything left in you?'

Oh, shit. I am still inside him, but my erection is all but gone now. 'I don't …' I pant. 'I'm sorry …'

He waves his free hand. 'It's OK.'

I pull out of him and slump back onto my heels, panting heavily, as rational thought begins to ebb into my mind again. I wish it wouldn't. It is only now I can think that I realise how animalistic I have been, how Papa is lying there taking his pleasure into his own hands yet again when this could have been a beautiful first time for us. That was what I had wanted, when I'd spent twenty minutes in the cellar choosing wine. How have I let it turn into the most selfish fuck ever?

I can't even look when I hear Papa groan through his orgasm. I think he even tries to mute himself so as not to disturb me. I simply sit, head hanging, breathing hard. I don't know how to describe my feelings in the moment. I do know I am supposed to feel much better than this.

I rub my hands all over my face as though washing it. Suddenly, fatigue threatens to overtake me, but I would not be able to sleep if I tried. I would rather curl up into a ball and moan to myself for several hours instead. I do not make a sound, though, or even move, until I hear Papa shrugging his robe back on. He sits up, and I raise my head just enough so that I can meet his eyes. He's watching me with some concern. I do not miss how modestly he has tied his robe, no doubt deliberately covering himself and the evidence of his climax.

' _Unholy is the lust in your eyes_ ,' he says. His brother's words are too much, and I cover my eyes with my hand.

We are quiet for what feels like a very long time, but what is probably a matter of seconds. Every crackle the fire makes is amplified, and its heat is uncomfortable.

'Something tells me you really needed that,' Papa says, finally.

He's not mad. I cannot fathom the patience this man has for my stupidity. 'I fear I have made my inexperience incredibly obvious just now,' I mumble to the rug.

He places a hand on my thigh. 'Well, you cannot be an expert at something you aren't well practised in,' he says gently. 'But when you say “inexperience”, do you mind me asking …?'

I raise my head, trying to say it with my eyes. I do not know how to admit to it out loud, and fortunately, he knows me well enough that he understands straight away.

'Are you still … not with anyone?'

I shake my head. There are tears, as well as a new rage, welling up and I make no attempt to stop either of them.

'With all due respect, who the fuck would I have slept with, Papa?' I say.

He gestures wildly with both arms. 'You really have no _fucking_ idea, do you? I can name at least ten people in the ministry, off the top of my head, who would have done anything to spend just one night with you!'

'And who is to say I would want to spend the night with any of them?' I brush at my eyes impatiently. 'In my whole life, I have only ever met one person I've wanted to sleep with. _One._ And I just blew my load inside him after … after about two seconds, and made a complete idiot of myself …'

'No. I do not think you're an idiot,' Papa says, squeezing my thigh. 'I just … I can't believe you have waited this long.'

I hesitate for a moment, sniffing. Papa just waits. He is still exerting gentle pressure on my thigh. How he knows his touch is enough when words become difficult …

'I did try,' I say eventually. 'Once. Right after you … disappeared. One of the younger sisters noticed I had been down, and we got to chatting … one thing led to another and all that shit, but it soon became very apparent, to both of us, that I simply … wished she was you,' I say. The memory is painful to even gloss over. 'It was a humiliating experience, for her and me. But then I should have known it would be, shouldn't I? I can't have sex the way you do. I only want it when there are feelings involved.'

Have I made things too heavy, saying that? He picks up his wine again, then takes several huge mouthfuls before responding.

'That was your first time,' he says. 'Not your only. And yes, perhaps next time I will show you where I keep my lube before you go pounding in, but in general I was very into assertive Copia. Just about as much as I am into shy, nervous Copia. In fact, all things considered … I think I might just be very into Copia.'

There is a moment of quiet eye contact, another soft squeeze of my thigh, before he leans in to kiss me. I let myself melt into it, winding my arms around his shoulders. No urgency or lust this time, just tenderness and something unsaid. When he pulls away from me, his hands are resting loosely at my waist.

'Come to bed,' he says.

I nod downwards. 'I think I need a shower …'

'Ah, do that in the morning. I don't care. I'm sleepy and you said I should try to capitalise on that. Come on.'

So I let him lead me by the hand, abandoning the fire as it dies down, to his bedroom. It is the reverse, slightly haphazard version of mine. There's a faint smoky odour of jasmine – he must burn incense in here or something. It isn't quite the smell of home but it isn't far off. I stand and watch him move to the side of the bed and he frowns at me.

'Don't be silly,' he says. 'I want you in here with me.'

I am being silly, I know, but it does take his permission to stir me. I slide under the blankets at the other side, savouring their soft touch all over my warm, prickling skin, before Papa shuffles backwards into me to make me his big spoon. I slide an arm around his waist and he rests his on mine.

'I should not have asked you to do that tonight,' he says.

I have to wonder whether or not he was waiting until we were in darkness, not looking at one another, before he could initiate this conversation. If only the darkness gave me the same clarity. 'Oh …?'

'You were not ready. I could tell from the way you resisted your orgasm back in your bedroom.' He's wiggling a little, trying to get comfortable against me while I am anything but in my own mind. 'But it's OK. I can show you some stuff before you leave, if you want me to. If we really are going to do this.'

This has heartened me. 'What sort of stuff?'

I know exactly what he's getting at. I am just enjoying teasing him.

'Hmmm. Well. You _almost_ found my prostate just now, so I think I'll show you where that is,' he says – I can see his smirk in my mind's eye, and thank Satan he can't see my real blush. 'But mostly it depends on what you think you might be into. Or more accurately, what _I_ think you might be into, I suppose. I don't think you would try to deny that, for once, I am the one with all the expertise here.'

Of course I can't try to deny that. Everything I know about sex, I learned from Papa's boasting. And I have heard so much boasting, about so many acts, that I do not know what to say here. I wait, and he speaks again.

'I do have other surprises for you tomorrow, though.'

He's finally found his spot, like a restless puppy, and has stilled against me. I'm not even sure I want to do anything other than lie like this, ever again. But I lean down to kiss his shoulder.

'OK, Papa. I'm going to trust you.'

'Good.' He takes a deep breath. 'And … I don't think you should call me that any more.'

This makes me tense. 'But you always say I should call you whatever I want?'

'Yes. Well. I have changed my mind. Things are different now, huh? I am not your superior, I am …'

I wait, with bated breath, for how he chooses to finish that sentence. He makes a little noise in his throat.

'I am yours,' he says.


	8. Why Did It Have to Be Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We flash back to the days when Papa was in the position Copia is now. He questions Copia about what the new power dynamic might do to their friendship, and things get intense (not smutty. Sorry).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this before I wrote any of the rest of it, if anyone cares. Just so I knew what I was dealing with in the current timeline!

_2015_

'It can't be practical to move around onstage in my vestments. I don't know how Secundo did it without going ass over tit on a nightly basis …'

Papa was smoothing his new, custom-made tailcoat down his slender frame as he wittered away to one of his many reflections. I'd lost count of the amount of Papas criss-crossing the dressing room, mirrors reflecting mirrors all around us. I tried not to catch myself in the eye. I was on the floor at his feet, pinning the hem of his trousers up. There was quite a lot of spare material.

'How are you doing, Copia?' he said.

'I would be doing a lot better if you'd keep still,' I grumbled. 'Will you stop preening until I'm done here?'

' _Preening_?' Papa blew a kiss to himself. 'I simply can't help myself. I look divine. Wouldn't you agree?'

I didn't even need to glance at a glossy Mirror-Papa to know that I did. 'Of course. Absolutely divine.'

He gave an appreciative grunt. 'Precisely. It is just a shame about the leg length … these people always serve to remind me that I am not the _tallest_ member of the clergy … but other than that, it is perfect. The first Papa to actually bring his A-game to the stage.'

He was gloating, yes, but he was the sort of man who could get away with it. Even without his corpse paint: his poise, grace and sensual purring were often more than enough. Siblings and ghouls almost literally queued for the chance to spend a night with him. He was a generous member of the church.

I had never had the inclination – or, if I was being honest with myself, the guts – to join the end of the line. I was too frightened of my reaction to the idea that he might not accept me into his quarters the way he did the others. I was even more frightened of my reaction to the idea that he might.

I cleared my throat, trying to dispel my own embarrassing thoughts.

'Papa, huh?' I said quickly. 'It still sounds strange to me. I can't believe I have to actually call you this now.'

'Only in front of the _important_ people, Copia,' said Papa. Whether deliberately or not, he was now making my pinning much easier as he concentrated on his face, tracing shapes across his cheeks with a serious, set expression. 'When we are alone like this, call me whatever the hell you like. Terzo … _stronzetto_ … daddy, if you like.'

I almost stabbed a pin into his ankle as he gave a bright laugh. 'I am fucking with you, huh? But you would not be the first. I imagine it will only happen more with my new title, anyway.'

Unsure as to whether he was still "fucking with me", I kept my face towards the floor to hide my flushed cheeks. The idea of Papa in _those_ situations, fictional or otherwise, often made me feel like I was party to some very classified information that should never have been revealed to me. He, though, was still ruminating on his title, apparently oblivious to my humiliation.

'I suppose you should probably be careful. Now that I am your superior in the clergy and all that jazz. You wouldn't want to be accused of being disrespectful, now, would you?'

His trousers in place, I straightened up. I folded my arms in mock indignation. 'Of the two of us,' I said, 'who the hell is going to call _me_ the disrespectful one?'

He grinned, his tongue poking out cheekily from between his teeth. 'As usual, you are right. And I think we need to talk about _the two of us_ _,_ as you call it. Now that our professional dynamic has – how should I put this? _Shifted_ slightly.'

'You mean how I work for you now?'

'Well, I wasn't going to be the one to say it, but … yes. I just wouldn't want it to affect our personal relationship, Copia. Whatever our personal relationship is.'

He made a huge fuss over adjusting his collar. I knew it was deliberate. He was giving me adequate time to squirm.

'I … don't know what you mean,' I said eventually. 'We have been friends for years.'

'Yes. We _have_ been friends for years, haven't we?' Papa moves to his shirt, shrugging it over his chest to straighten it out. 'But part of me wonders whether we might potentially be something else.'

If I'd initiated this conversation, which I would never have done anyway, it would have taken me a good twenty minutes, at least, to get to the point he'd just pummelled home in an instant. Again, he knew what he was doing. He knew full well that I had to think for a long time in order to work out what he was implying and what I wanted to say about it.

The problem was, what I truly wanted to say and what I thought I ought to say were two different entities.

It took me too long. He'd never been the patient type. 'Oh, Copia, let's not dance around this any more. You never fawn over me the way the others do, and you've never once attempted to spend the night in my bed.' I tried to cut in, but he held up his hand to stop me. 'I know what you're going to say. And yes, I would perhaps be willing to believe that you simply didn't _want_ to sleep with me … if it weren't for everything else.'

'Wh – what do you mean, “everything else”?'

I knew full well what he meant.

'I mean the fact that you see me for who I am, not just the reputation I have going for me here. I mean the lingering eye contact when we have those late-night conversations in the library. I mean the way I can feel your touch on me long after you've finished handing me communion wafer in rituals, or holding my hair back after a heavy night.' He was gesticulating more and more aggressively the longer he spoke, his voice rising slightly in volume: then, without warning, he grabbed hold of one of my hands with both of his.

'I mean the way I feel _myself_ when I'm with you,' he said.

I froze, simply holding his gaze. He seemed to realise how empassioned he'd become only when he paused for a moment: he maintained our eye contact, but let out a nervous chuckle, dropping my hand. 'And I usually feel myself after I've been with you, too,' he said.

'OK. Whatever you were trying to do, you've just ruined it,' I said, but in reality all he had done was plant a mental image of himself, mid-onanism, his glossy new trousers around his ankles and his face contorted in pleasure. My own cock started to stir, and I silently thanked Satan for my loose vestments.

'Don't be stupid. You're thinking about it right now,' he teased. He'd always had this in-depth understanding of me – testament to the chemistry he was trying to convince me we possessed, and that I was still trying to pretend, aloud, at least, that I'd never noticed. The heat rising from my neck to my face, though, may have betrayed me. 'You're deflecting from the point, anyway, Copia. I've sort of exposed myself here and I need to know if I'm being an arrogant piece of shit, as usual, or if I really am onto something.'

Almost instinctively, I glanced back towards the door to the dressing room. We weren't likely to be disturbed but even the tiniest risk of somebody overhearing what I was considering saying left me nauseous. Papa's words were not a total shock, but they were a surprise, and with good reason: members of the clergy didn't tend to harbour romantic feelings for one another. Particularly not members of the clergy who held such esteemed titles as ours. Satan encouraged the exchanging of pleasure, although some of us indulged more than others, but to choose a mate would mean a distraction from duties as well as a selfish reduction in the number of other partners one could satisfy. And Papa satisfied a lot of partners.

But as he watched me in earnest, for perhaps the first time in my life I considered that Satan might like to go and fuck himself.

'Well … what if you _are_ on to something?' I ventured. 'What then? It is not as though we could _do_ anything about it …'

He waved a dismissive hand. 'Says who?'

'Says every ghoul and sibling who would miss the pleasure of your company?'

'I am Papa now. If I say I am too busy, I am too busy. They will respect that. They will have to.'

'It doesn't matter,' I said. 'Rumour will get around if suddenly no one is sleeping with you any more. You'd have to keep things up, to some extent.'

I'd hit on something uncomfortable. Papa bit his lip and turned his gaze to one of his reflections behind my right shoulder. 'You're upsetting yourself over something hypothetical now. Stop thinking so hard, Copia. All I want to know, right now, is whether you feel the same way about me as I feel about you.'

But I shook my head, dropping it as I did so. 'Papa …'

'Go on?'

'It doesn't matter how I feel. The mere idea is inconceivable.'

He slammed his fists into his thighs. 'Oh, fuck ideas! This is reality! You and I, here, in the dressing room! And I am simply asking you what your true feelings towards me are …'

And I couldn't take the pressure any more. Without due consideration for his gorgeous new tailcoat, I seized his lapels, pulled him to me and crashed my lips into his.

This was the stuff of my dreams. Terzo and I, alone, able to physically express the feelings we had for one another that I had been trying to suppress.

For years.

For the moment, I let all of my doubts leave my mind. I felt Papa smile against me fleetingly before he kissed me back and that was enough to make me forget everything I had been worried about. He took my face in both of his hands as he prised our lips apart, tongues meeting, bodies pressing together in mirror images of one another like so many reflections that I did not dare peek at. Did we look as magnificent as I imagined, entwined in our finery? Did we look as though we belonged together?

As though desperate for breath, Papa wrenched himself away from me with a gasp – there was a gleam in his mismatched eyes as he met mine with ferocity.

'Now I know why you never came to me at night,' he said hoarsely. 'You never wanted sex. You wanted _me_ …'

Part of me wanted to cry. I wasn't sure whether the tears I suppressed were of joy or despair.

He started to lean in again, but I raised a hand, touching my fingertips to his lips. He frowned.

'Copia –?'

I just shook my head.

'I can't,' I said. 'I'm sorry, but I can't.'

I turned away from him. I couldn't bear to look at the defeat in his eyes for a second longer than I had to, not after I'd given him a fleeting moment of triumph.

'Have I got you … completely wrong?' he said sadly. 'I just thought … well, there seemed to _be_ something. I thought I was good at this stuff, but maybe I need putting in my place now and again …;

 _Shit._ The tears were beginning to surface again, and this time they were taking some beating. He was not wrong about needing to be put in his place now and again, of course, but now was not the time for that. He was hurt. I'd never, ever wanted to hurt him.

'You aren't wrong,' I said. 'Of course you aren't wrong. But how can we make this work when we hold the positions we hold?'

I'd expected slightly more aggressive resistance, but Papa simply shrugged. 'We will. You forget how powerful we are in the clergy now, _Cardinal_. We are not mere laity any more. We can call the shots. Or some of them, at least.'

He was thinking, I knew, of Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil – I rolled my eyes.

'It is not necessarily about using our power, it is about our reputation,' I said. 'The respect we command. What other people will _think_. Two Cardinals seen together a lot … perhaps. But a Papa singling out just one Cardinal? Would you have accepted that, had you seen it yourself?'

'It would have been none of my business.'

'Will you stop talking as though it's that simple?'

'It is that simple.'

'Then why has it taken you this long to say something?' I cried. 'Why did you have to wait until your ascension to even discover whether or not I was interested in you in that way? Because you know as well as I do that we are a bad idea, that's why! Things do not work like that around here, Papa.' I paused to wipe my eyes, and through my blurred vision I noticed an almost imperceptible, but still very definite, drop in his demeanour. 'As much as I wish they did … they just don't.'

He sighed, very heavily.

'If only you didn't look so damned cute when you cry.'

'Oh, _fuck_ you.' Hardly believing what he'd said, I swivelled away from him and made for the door – but it was not easy to work out which one was the real one when the room was full of repeated mirror images, and anyway Papa was already calling after me. He was not an easy person to ignore.

'Shit – I'm sorry – sorry – that was an idiotic thing to say –'

'Yes, it was,' I said. 'And it just reinforces my decision. Can't you see? You are not listening to me. I am saying no, and you are not taking it seriously. That isn't a quality I want in a partner, Papa.'

'I know, I know. I wasn't thinking, all right? My brain is not functioning very well at the moment.'

'Well. Fortunately, I think mine is.'

I glanced around the room. The image of the two of us, from every conceivable angle, did jar me: this was, on some level, all I really wanted. But I could not let this distract me from my quest for the door. I shifted my eyes, avoiding the many glorious Papas, until I'd located what I was 90% sure was the real door. Only then did I focus fully on the real Papa again. Small, sheepish. Papa in defeat. It was not a sight any of us saw often, and it felt like a grim sort of privilege to be the one experiencing it. From too many points of view. There were even mirrors in the ceiling …

Slowly, I walked back to him. Coming to rest in front of him, I pressed my lips to his one more time. I felt him inhale in surprise – when he'd fully released the breath, I leant back. His eyes were half open.

'Please,' he whispered - and there was a hint of a whine to his tone. 'At least come to me once in a while like the others do. Nobody would notice. We wouldn't even have to have sex, or anything. We could just … be us. Whatever. Please.'

I shook my head.

'We are going to carry on exactly as we are,' I said. 'I am drawing a line under this, right here, right now.'

And I made for the door. The real one this time.


	9. Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things feel easier now that Papa and Copia have worked out what they are to one another. After a lazy morning, involving food and a bit of chilled wanking, Papa shows Copia the surprise he's been planning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think I'd pump out an update but somehow I've made it! I hope the quality isn't shite as a result, but I'm not gonna lie I do find these fluffier chapters a lot easier, haha. I'm an emotions girl really. I also speak slightly better Swedish than Italian.
> 
> I'm already starting to consider a potential sequel but having dealt with so much tension and angst and build-up here, I need to give them a strong scenario to follow it up with, and I don't know what that is yet.

It is just beginning to brighten outside when I stir in the morning. It was a more satisfying sleep than the previous night – I am warm and comfortable, but I could also get up happily. Go for a run, study the Satanic Bible, cook breakfast. I am rested and ready for anything.

The reason for my ease is snoozing gently on my chest. We must have shifted during the night: I am now lying on my back, and both of my arms are around a Terzo who is draped across me, very much out of it. All of a sudden, I no longer want to get up at all. Even after everything that has happened between us this weekend, this moment feels the most _real._ The closest to the vision of an ordinary life I could have, and perhaps should have, lived with him. I twirl my fingers into his hair. It is a mess, having been slept on all night, and it is softer this way. I stroke it off his forehead, then let it fall back out of place.

'Good morning, _mio caro,_ ' I whisper. Still nothing. I keep playing with his hair, smiling down at my sleeping lover. It is only a minute or so, though, before a gentle pressure on my bladder makes itself known.

 _Merda._ I know Terzo has his kinks, but I think even he would draw the line at being accidentally pissed on in his sleep.

I certainly draw a line somewhere way before that point. While I do not want to leave him – never, truly, have I seen him so at peace – I am too old to hold it in when I have had wine so soon before bed. Much longer and things will become urgent.

It is an awkward shuffle, but I manage to wriggle out from underneath him without disturbing him beyond a shift in his breathing. He settles back down onto my pillow, and I tiptoe through to the bathroom, becoming aware of another slight issue as I do. Of course. I have only just woken up, after all.

I suppose this one needs taking care of first.

Glancing back at Papa, who is still fast asleep, I realise that outside of our cosy nest, I feel rather sweaty and clammy. The idea of getting back into bed with him in this state seems a little gross now, I must admit. Tentatively, I turn on the shower. I must check him about ten times before I get under it, but each time I find him in the same position, breathing deeply.

How I wish he were awake to help me out now …

I do not think too hard about it, though. It simply needs taking care of: my cock is hard and flushed. Under the warmth of the shower, I close my eyes, and the memories of the last couple of days fuse together into a coherent enough fantasy that I can lose myself for a minute or so. For once, I am very glad it doesn't last longer. I don't want to be without him, even if I am with him in my mind, for too long.

Once I'm back in the bedroom after relieving myself – _relieve_ being the operative word, I feel like a different person – he is still asleep. He hasn't missed me at all. I perch on the bed.

'Something tells me you really need this,' I say, under my breath.

Pathetic, but I miss him. I really do. Most of all, though, I am pleased he is truly resting.

It is only when I've made breakfast, or probably brunch, by the time it's ready, and brought a tray of it back into his bedroom that he finally stirs. He's rubbing his eyes, rolling over to face me, and the desire to snuggle back up with him again resurfaces.

'Mm … you didn't fancy a morning fuck, then?' he mumbles, rather ruining the homely image. I smile down at him.

'Well, I might have, had you not so desperately needed quality sleep,' I say. 'Matters became urgent, Pap – Terzo. I had to take care of them on my own.'

He still looks irritated. 'You should have woken me up.'

'No, I shouldn't have.'

'Yes, you should have. I can sleep all I want when you're not here.'

'The thing is,' I say, setting the tray down on the bedside table so I can sit on the bed beside him. 'I don't think you can, can you?'

He stares at me, as though he means to retort, but how can he? In my arms, he has undoubtedly slept better than he has in months.

Instead, he leans in, and we kiss without urgency. He tastes of himself, infused with sleep.

'Mm …' He pulls away first. 'We should eat. We have other stuff to do today.'

'I am here all day,' I remind him. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

'That is where you're wrong,' he says. 'For once in your life.'

To hell with feeling sweaty. I shuffle myself back under the covers so I can share my warmth with him, fresh from the shower. He reaches over for coffee and I feel this is somehow in character: I can easily picture bringing coffee to him every morning. The thought aches a little.

'OK. I may have misled you,' he says. 'There is no _rush_ , per se. But when we are both up and ready, I am taking you somewhere.'

'Somewhere?' I raise an eyebrow. Papa passes me my own cup of black coffee. ' _Grazie._ Sister Imperator was adamant I don't see a clue as to where I am located, though …'

'What _Sister Imperator_ doesn't know,' Papa says, 'won't hurt her. Besides, we aren't going orienteering.'

He won't say anything more. I think – no, I _know –_ he enjoys teasing me. I stop whining after a few minutes, electing instead to simply eat and enjoy him. There's a new ease to this now we have agreed we are on the same page. A new appreciation for the ability to lean in and kiss him, casually, the way I had always half-dreamt. He is irresistible when he is trying to seduce me, but he is equally irresistible when he is licking pastry crumbs from his lips, too.

'This,' I say. 'This was all I ever wanted.'

He is midway through eating a banana: he holds it up. 'Breakfast in bed?'

'No … well. Sort of. I just mean that I wanted things to be nice and normal between us, that's all,' I say. 'And it never would have been nice and normal.'

He bites into his banana again, chewing it thoughtfully.

'I think I just accepted what you said in the dressing room that day,' he says. 'Without fully understanding it. Until now, that is. We could not have lived like this at the ministry.'

'But we can now. For the weekend.'

I don't mention that this weekend is where it ends. We still have today. That is what I have to remember. We have an entire day to be _us,_ the way I have always wanted us to be.

Papa takes another drink from his coffee cup before setting it back down on the bedside table. 'For the weekend,' he echoes. 'Thank goodness. This could have gone in another direction entirely and I am so pleased you agreed to give this a chance. Now.' He settles himself back into his pillows. 'Tell me more about this matter you had to take care of, huh?'

This, I am ready for. I shuffle over so I am leaning against him, and he slides an arm around my waist.

'Do we have time?' I tease, and he kisses me on the cheek.

'Of course we have time. You only last _two seconds_ , so it shouldn't even take that to tell me the story …'

I slip my hand beneath the blankets to find his balls and squeeze – tight. He yelps.

'Too soon,' I say. 'I am still completely humiliated.'

'Sorry … sorry.'

'Hm.' I cannot deny I am irritated, but I am able to take it with more humour than I perhaps would have been able to last night, at least. 'After that jibe, maybe I do not feel like telling you about my shower any more.'

He leans back and closes his eyes. ' _Ugh._ You were in the shower?'

' _S_ _ì_ _, mio caro._ In the shower. Completely naked. All that lovely, warm water cascading over my body …'

My hand is still underneath the blankets. I slide it gently down his cock before taking hold of it, and he exhales through his nose. He is not hard but I am in no hurry. I rub my thumb up and down, as slowly as I can manage.

' _Mm_ ,' he says. 'We will have to shower together sometime. That is a sight I want to see for myself.'

'Well … you can picture it now.' I circle his cock head with my thumb. 'I am in the shower, I am hard, and I am thinking of you.'

I am, of course, not lying. I close my own eyes. I cannot deny that I am nervous, having him at my mercy like this again, but I reason that at least this time it will be virtually impossible to put my own selfish desires before his. I have already serviced myself, after all.

I slide my hand up his shaft to cup his balls.

'Careful,' Papa warns. 'You are going to give me the same problem.'

'I certainly am.' I ripple my fingers. 'I am going to revel in it, Terzo.'

I slip my hand back to his shaft and start stroking again: there is definite hardness beginning there now.

'I was thinking about all you have done for me,' I breathe, as I massage him. 'Like the night we met by the fire for the first time and you asked me to kneel for you so you could take my cock out.'

Yes. This is going far better than last night. He is hardening at my touch and my words, making it much easier for me to get a full hold on him.

'Yes … Terzo, I was so full of lust for you. Back then _and_ in the shower just now. I am sorry I did not wake you, but I had no patience. I needed my release. I needed to touch myself. Although of course I _wished_ it was you there, sucking me again …'

'So do I, _mio caro._ I love your delicious cock so much.' His voice is strained now. I quicken my pace and he groans. 'And I am falling in love with your hand, too, my love …'

I lean in to kiss him. 'Take hold of me, too, if you like. I do not think you could entice an erection out of me so soon after my last, but …'

His hand is on my cock in an instant, and I shiver.

'Yes … beautiful,' he whispers.

'Now imagine it hard for you,' I say. 'Imagine it pulsing, desperate for release, under the shower. Imagine me having to make do with pleasuring myself in your absence.'

' _Fottuto inferno_ …' He is twitching in my hand, and I take my other one down there to help him along, cupping his balls. 'And did you come, _mio caro_?'

He's gently fondling my cock as I jerk him. ' _S_ _ì_. Of course I came. How can I do anything else where you are concerned? I came unashamedly, Terzo. Unrestrained. The shower took care of the cum for me, otherwise I could have shown you how excited I was at the mere idea of you …'

'Oh _cazzo_ …' he moans, and that is enough to send him over the edge. His hold on my cock tightens as his own spills out his release, onto the blanket and into my hand, and I stroke him through it.

'That's it,' I whisper. It is a joy to watch him, face screwed up, body tense and trembling. 'So hot for me, _mio caro_ … that's it …'

I do not relinquish my touch until he falls back again, breathing hard and letting the pillows take all of his weight as though he has just sprinted around the cabin.

' _Merda_ …' he says. He opens his eyes and lifts up the blankets to inspect the damage. 'Another item for the washing machine.' He drops the blankets, kisses me deeply. ' _Grazie, mi amor._ That was … sublime. Truly. Do you mind if I take a shower?'

'Of course not,' I say. 'I am not you.'

He gives me a playful slap with the back of his hand. 'Oi. I was only preventing you from having to shower twice. See you in a few moments.'

I watch him meander, naked, into the bathroom with a deep, contented heat in the pit of my stomach.

I fill the washing machine myself while he is showering, and the dull domesticity of the whole situation keeps that heat burning. This could be our normal life. Brunch. Terzo, in the shower as I clear up. Then – apparently – a surprise.

I get enough of a surprise when he joins me in the kitchen. He is fully dressed, hair dry and styled the way he used to wear it for the stage, with full corpse paint and the ruffly blouse to set it off. I am almost ashamed of the twinge of arousal I feel at the sight of him alone.

'Stunning,' I say. 'As always. What is the occasion?'

I am at the draining board, drying the brunch plates, and he steps up behind me to slide both arms around my waist. ' _You_ are the occasion, _mio caro,_ ' he says. 'Of course. How soon can you be ready?'

He is tracing circles around my navel with his fingertips, and the soft tickling sensation is clouding my thinking. I tilt my head back onto his shoulder, and he rests his chin on mine. 'Ten minutes?' I sigh. 'Let me finish this?'

'No. I will finish this, Copia. You go and pack whatever you will need for an overnight stay.'

I turn to meet his eyes, our faces millimetres apart. 'Overnight? Not … here?'

'I told you I had a surprise for you. We will be sleeping elsewhere tonight.' I raise my eyebrows. 'Phil knows! Do not worry. He will pack the rest of your stuff and be ready to pick you up just the same, OK? It is not far away. Go and get ready.'

He plants a kiss on my nose, then wipes away what I imagine will be face paint, before releasing me, pushing me gently to one side as he does so so he can take my place at the draining board. He hums to himself, picking up my tea towel.

Is he really this happy, or is it merely a show he is putting on for me as an extension of his hospitality? A lack of desire to concern me with his wellbeing when I have enough to be concerned about already, perhaps?

When I return with an overnight bag, he holds out a giant winter coat. It is a hefty thing, clearly designed for extremes.

'Here,' he says. 'We are walking, so you will need this. It is Phil's so it should fit you perfectly.'

It does, almost as though it were my own bespoke piece. 'Huh,' I say, as I fasten it up. 'That's funny, isn't it?'

'Not as funny as you might think. Are you wearing good shoes?' I show him the boots I arrived in. 'Right. Come on, then.'

It is snowing. This is too perfect. Papa leads me through the trees, onto a semi-beaten track that looks as though it has been trodden only by locals who are aware it leads somewhere, and small flakes of snow are drifting between the gaps in the firs to land, stark in his hair, before melting into it. Our progress is slow, the snow on the ground deep. Conversation dwindles as we muster up all our concentration to pick up our feet and make sure we do not trip over any hidden roots or rocks. When I rescue myself from a stumble, albeit with a lingering _shit,_ Papa pauses.

'Here.' He reaches his hand out towards me. 'Let's do this properly, huh?'

I slip my glove into his with a smile. He takes a moment to make sure I'm steady on my feet, then we set off again, our linked hands feeling like an extra level of security as well as, simply, rather nice.

'Do you know what?' Papa says, after a minute or so of easy silence. 'All of the things I have done … and I have never held hands with anyone like this. Never.'

It makes my heart flutter a little, I can't deny. I thumb over his knuckles slowly. 'Neither have I.'

I am honoured. Truly. But I keep that thought to myself. It sounds like something a Cardinal would say to his Papa – not something I would say to my lover.

In fact, neither of us speaks again until our destination looms over us.

It is a magnificent, domed building made entirely of ice. Two storeys, it seems, of blues and whites, shining in the low sunlight. The entrance is almost as tall, a gothic archway to rival anything made of bricks and mortar. The whole thing almost appears to be moving. Surrounded by trees, I could be in a story from childhood. I do not realise how hard I am squeezing Papa's hand until he grips me back, and I ease off a little.

'Oh … I'm sorry. I just … this is so _incredibly_ beautiful,' I say. 'Does Sister know about this?'

'Not that I know of.'

'Good.'

He leads us through the front entrance, where we emerge into a magnificent foyer. The strange light in here takes some adjusting to, but the whole place is still overwhelming me with its beauty. There is only one person here waiting, a receptionist who might have been standing still all morning anticipating our arrival.

' _Hej_ ,' she says to Papa, and her tone is familiar, not professional. ' _Ä_ _r det h_ _ä_ _r din pojkvan?'_

Papa smiles at me. _'God eftermiddag. Och ja._ _Å_ _tminstone, jag tror det …_ '

And my jaw, forgetting my promise of not showing surprise at Papa's newfound skills, drops.

The receptionist turns to me. 'Good afternoon, sir,' she says.

'Good afternoon,' I stammer, still reeling from Papa's fluent Swedish. 'This is such a beautiful structure you have here …'

' _Tack._ Thank you. And you have it all to yourselves this evening,' she smiles. I turn to Papa.

'Do you own this place?' I say, and they both laugh.

'No! You know me – I simply have my contacts. _Och mina pengar, nej?_ ' He says to the receptionist, who chuckles. Whatever he said sounds flirtatious, but I find I do not mind. In fact, it stirs a swirl of arousal up in me.

' _Jag tar dina_ _v_ _ä_ _skor till dit rum,_ Jens,' says the receptionist to Papa, then she turns to me. 'You are both free to make yourselves at home. I will stay only until you give me your orders for dinner, and then it will only be our chefs here, and you will hardly notice them. Is there anything you would like in the meantime?'

Papa glances at me, but I shake my head.

'No. Thank you – _tack_? This is all … it is almost too lovely, anyway.'

We are seated in an empty restaurant area, the vastness echoing around us. The dinner menu is as stunning as our surroundings, and it takes me an embarrassing amount of time to settle on a fish dish that I imagine will be caught from a nearby lake imminently. When the receptionist bids us good afternoon and vanishes into what I assume are the kitchens, I turn to Papa.

'You are fluent in Swedish.' I forget, once again, not to sound surprised. 'You have not been out here that long and you do not interact with the public regularly, yet you are fluent. That is … I have to say, that is something else, Terzo. Or, should I say, _Jens_?'

He just smiles, with a casual shrug. ' _Nej, det_ _ä_ _r det inte._ '

'Speak English or Italian, please.'

He genuinely looks confused now. 'Do you … do you not speak Swedish?' he says.

I shake my head. 'Why would I speak Swedish? I had never even been to Sweden until now.'

'It's just … I have always known how,' he says. 'I can't remember learning it, I simply speak it.'

I stare at him. 'What the hell.'

'I'm sorry! I thought you spoke it, too. I thought it was something to do with the ministry, perhaps. My brothers speak Swedish. Why don't you?'

'I don't know! I didn't even know _you_ spoke it!' I was trying not to laugh: this whole situation seemed very stupid, but I wanted to remain irritated even so. 'How has this never come up before?'

'Calm down, _ä_ _lskling_ ,' Papa chuckles. 'I am not going to use it against you. I am simply a little confused as to why I have this innate ability if it hasn't been gifted to everyone at the clergy. Satan perhaps has other ideas for you.'

'Perhaps. Perhaps you have linguistic Scandinavian abilities in place of my strong quads …'

I feel almost as though we are being too silly in such a setting, but I cannot deny it is fun to be silly with him again. It is a good thing we don't have to share the place. I imagine sitting near us, drunk on affection and loud and lively, is probably very irritating if you are not a part of our little bubble.

The receptionist brings us a bottle of champagne before she bids us goodnight. She, at least, beams at our merriment.

'Enjoy your evening,' she says to us both. Then, to Papa: ' _Du och din_ _ä_ _lskling har det b_ _ä_ _sta rummet ikv_ _ä_ _ll. Jag såg till om det.'_

Papa reaches out to take her hand with both of his.

' _Tack_ ,' he says. ' _Tack s_ _å_ _mycket. D_ _et är mycket uppskattat. Han är … han är s_ _å_ _speciell f_ _ö_ _r mig.'_

I think he slips her a tip, but he looks very sincere as they hold one another's gazes. When he turns to me, I am sure there are tears in his eyes.

'Are you OK?' I say, under my breath, and he nods.

'Yes,' he says, slightly breathlessly. 'Of course, Copia. I am better than I have been in a very, very long time.'

I reach out for his hand across the table. 'Me too.'

We sit in a comfortable silence for several minutes. Again, I am pleased there is no one around to see this. Somehow even being quiet feels incredibly intimate when I am quiet with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was considering starting a side blog for richcreamerybutter with the aim of maybe starting on prompts and requests and things but then I basically wouldn't have any other content to get it started with because I'm neither artistic nor remotely interesting. For the time being you can irritate me on twitter if you like! I'll need something to do once this is over!


	10. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter we've all been waiting for! When the relevant bit comes, I would encourage you to play the music and find an ambient asmr video of the scene I describe. Haha.
> 
> Papa shows Copia the night of his life in the ice hotel's most beautiful bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you CopiasWitch, I owe you quite a lot more chocolate. And strained fabric kills me, too.

The meal is delectable. The receptionist was right about being left alone, too. I do worry slightly at the idea that Papa and I are surrounded by this ice palace with no one to maintain it, but I try to allow myself to relax even so. There must be people on standby in the event of a giant melting. I do not know how these things work but I do know that Papa would never knowingly put me in danger.

At least, this Papa wouldn't.

It is, of course, very chilly. We keep our coats on as we explore the place after dinner, hand-in-hand at his instigation again. In any other situation this abandoned, blueish-white cavern could have the potential to be eerie but this evening, with him, it is anything but. It glitters with magic and majesty.

'Terzo,' I say, after a quiet spell of simply taking in the wonder. 'I'm just thinking. I don't want to be a downer, because this is probably the most beautiful place I have ever been to in my entire life, but how on Earth are we going to sleep in such temperatures?'

'Ah!' He beams at me. 'Don't you worry about that. Wait until you see our room.'

He says nothing else about it, though, so I do not press him. I don't want to ruin tonight at any cost. We are wandering through a gallery of ice sculptures, many of them taller than we are, and part of me wonders whether I could perhaps bring myself to sleep in a room like this. Would the wonder be worth the cold?

He is watching me. I catch his eye by accident, and even in the dim light and behind his face paint, I notice the reddish hue that creeps up his face.

My lips curl upwards despite myself. 'What are you thinking?'

He shakes his head slightly and turns away from me, feigning a sudden new interest in a sculpture of a reindeer. 'Absolutely nothing, Copia. My mind is a blank.'

But a minute or so later, as we are walking again, he lets my hand go and winds it around me. I lean into him slightly, shuffling our bodies closer together, but he has other plans: his hand slips downwards and begins to paw at my ass through my coat.

'Later,' he breathes, as though anyone could overhear him. 'How would you feel if I tried … exploring down here?'

I inhale, sharply. The idea is a thrill, but like many of the things that have happened between us this weekend, it is also completely new to me. 'Well,' I say, just as quietly – but I can't find the words to end that sentence.

He gives me a swift squeeze. ' _Mio caro,_ you keep nothing up there that I will not have seen before, if that is what you are worried about. I will not do anything you are not comfortable with. I promise. But I would really love to take you tonight.'

 _Mmm …_ when he purrs it like that, I would really love him to take me right now.

'I also had another idea,' he says. 'Please don't freak out when I say it. But how about a little bondage?'

I am glad he warned me not to freak out. I raise my eyebrows. 'A _little_?'

'Yes. I will not shut you in an iron maiden or anything. It's just … I remember, when I was young and first started to involve others in my pleasure, the best thing about it for me was the fact that someone else had control over it. Do you understand? When you touch yourself you always know what your own next move will be, but with someone else, you cannot see inside their head.' I nod slowly: that had been one of the most intense parts of his actions. 'So I was thinking of perhaps tying you up, huh? That way there is also less pressure on you to perform for me. Tonight – this whole weekend, my love – is all about you.'

I have to admit, talking about such intimacy when the act is not imminent is whipping up all of the thoughts in my mind so violently I feel faint. Should I be embarrassed? Confident? Bashful? Should I giggle or should I touch him or should I merely bask in the reality that Papa is calmly discussing how best to pleasure me when we go to bed tonight …?

I just nod, swallowing hard.

'Are you nervous, _mio caro_?' Papa says.

'No. No, just … overwhelmed.'

He finds my hand again. 'No need to be. This is just us being us, huh?'

_We could just … be us. Whatever. Please._

We could have had years, if I had been brave enough.

It is dark outside, but there is a lot of clear space around the hotel designed to walk around, with lights strung in the trees that are bright enough to see by but not so bright that the vast sky above us is too tainted: stars, everywhere, and a glowing half-moon. Out here, they feel very close.

'Warm enough?' Papa says, and I smile, tell him that yes, I am, considering the temperature.

He is setting a mood, I know that much. But he is doing it out of nothing but consideration for me: it is not an act of seduction. If we go to bed and I decide that I am terrified, or tired, or anything in between, he is not going to push me. He is simply putting me at ease, showing me that he cares about me and my feelings and my comfort. And there is nothing sexier to me.

When the greenish lights appear in the sky, we stop to watch them. He clutches at my hand and I know he will never say it, not on a night like this, but he is filled with childlike awe at the sight. There is nothing I can add to this. In fact, I worry that speaking will spoil it. Then Papa turns to me.

' _Ah, ma_ _è_ _evidente, muoio,'_ he says.

Ah, but it's obvious, I'm dying.

'Papa,' I say, forgetting to drop his title in my panic. 'What –?'

But he smiles at me. _'Non ho finito, mio caro. Abbi un po 'di pazienza._ I am about to show you something else I have learned while I have had too much time on my hands.'

My heart is hammering, though: I tighten my grip on his hand. 'Please do not open with things like that,' I say, and my voice is higher in pitch than I would like it to be.

'I'm sorry …' he whispers. He nuzzles into my neck. 'I did not intend for that to sound as morbid as it did. Let me finish?'

I cannot deny him anything he wants when he is like this. He leans away from me, and when he speaks again, I let him.

' _Ah, ma è evidente, muoio_

_Sto per morire, che siano giorni_

_o anni, sto per morire,_

_muoio. Lo fanno tutti_

_dovrò farlo anch'io. Sì, mi conformo_

_alla regola banale. Però intanto,_

_tra un sonno e l'altro finché esiste il sonno_

_(solo chi è in vita gode del suo sonno)_

_guardano il cielo, girando gli occhi_

_intorno, in questi istanti incerti_

_io sono certamente un'immortale.'_

I pause for a beat, just to let this hit me.

Then I want to ask him where he got those words from. I want to ask him if he learned them for himself or for me. I want to ask him to repeat the lines again, slowly, so I can look at the sky and take them in and feel immortal.

But if I open my mouth now, I will cry. I know it. Hideous, ugly sobbing that will do nothing but ruin the most beautiful night of my life. And I have spent too much of this weekend so far in tears. So I do the only thing I can think of to stop myself. I kiss him.

It is clumsy, when our lips are so cold we barely have control over them, but he pulls me in close and it doesn't really matter that my technique is ungainly or that I can't feel my nose. It is only when my entire face is starting to numb that he leans away from me, our two clouds of breath mingling between us.

'Shall we – erm.' He clears his throat. Is he nervous? He sounds nervous, and I bite my lip in amusement. 'Shall we go to bed?'

*

The receptionist, Papa assures me, has given us the best room in the hotel.

So when he leads me away from the hotel to find it, it does surprise me slightly. But when we arrive, I know exactly what she means.

I recognise our bags. They are standing within a sort of glass igloo, big enough that it fits a luxurious double bed, wardrobes, and a tiny room off the main passageway that I assume must be a sort of bathroom. Once inside, we will have a three hundred and sixty degree view of the landscape around us – including the northern lights.

'Now this,' I say, 'really is too much.'

'So are you going to refuse it and insist I take you back to the airport?'

Of course I am not.

It is surprisingly warm when we make our way inside, through a tunnel acting as a porch. I can feel my face smarting as I defrost. There is also music, coming from inside. I turn to Papa with a nervous frown, and he gives me a reassuring smile.

'That was at my request. There is no one else here.'

How did he know where my concern was rooted, without me having to say anything?

He opens the door, and the music swells: instrumentation and vocalisation. No lyrics, but a haunting, grandiose melody that grips me immediately even though I don't recall ever having heard it before. It makes me want to celebrate this night and lament our impending goodbye, all at once.

Then I realise I recognise the singers' voices. 'This … this is ABBA. Is it not?'

'It is.'

I roll my eyes. 'You only own one record?'

Slowly, with a sad smile, he nods. 'I cannot risk venturing to find more music. Not that there is anywhere close enough to venture _to_.'

'Then next time I come, I will bring you a veritable _s_ _mörgåsbord_ of music, Terzo. I know that much Swedish at least. But until then … I suppose it could be a lot worse.'

I am not teasing. The music – or perhaps it is the music and the company combined – is making the hairs on my arms stand on end.

'Come on, then,' Papa says, shedding his bulky outer coat and hanging it up on the back of the door. 'You have to admit, this is rather cool?'

'Cool. Yes. Less _cold_ than I would have expected,' I say. I, too, take off my coat, and Papa hangs it up for me. 'Thank you. You are spoiling me. I will not know what to say to Sister when she asks me how my weekend has gone.'

'You will simply tell Sister that you spent the weekend staring out into the snow envisaging yourself onstage with Ghost in order to make the prospect less terrifying.' He wraps both arms around my waist, smiling up at me. 'I am sure she will believe you. You will certainly be returning to Italy with a new _joie de vivre,_ you cannot deny that.'

'No, I can't …' I sigh. I would say something more but he is picking me up: I had no idea he had the strength. I am bigger than he is, in height and in build, but there is enough power in him that he can lift me clean off the ground. I wrap both of my legs around his waist and, as he kisses me, I let him carry me over to the bed.

He lies me down, climbs on top of me, and we break apart. His breath is heavy from exertion. I reach up to stroke a lock of his floppy hair behind his ear: it doesn't stay there, falling back to frame his face instead. I bite my lip again, and he smiles.

'It needs cutting …' he mumbles.

'No. It doesn't. A bit more length really suits you.'

He is backlit by the green lights in the sky, clear as day beyond the glass. It is an honor to savour this view, to know I am the only person on Earth who is enjoying it, and I know I could gaze up at him all night.

'Terzo …' I say, but I have no words. He leans down, I close my eyes, and we are kissing again, entwined under the sky.

We spend a long time like this. There is no urgency here tonight, only affection. There is probably something else, too, that I am not ready to confess to. Something that has been building for almost the entire time I have known him, the way a pearl begins as the smallest grain of sand. 

Then there are hands at my shirt, hands that have unfastened buttons on many occasions, and I tilt my head back to allow Papa the room he needs to get me out of my clothes as quickly as possible.

'Are you OK, sweetheart?' he says. The English term of endearment takes me by surprise. I nod.

' _Meraviglioso_ ,' I breathe.

This time, I am present enough in the moment to help him when he slips each sleeve of my shirt down. He drops it to the side of the bed somewhere, then straightens up so he is sitting astride me, thighs either side of my waist. His trousers are warm against my bare skin as he observes me for a moment, the tiniest smile playing about his lips.

'Wait,' he says. 'You stay right where you are. Don't move.'

There is a whine in my throat when he makes to dive off the bed, but he doesn't go far: he merely opens his suitcase. I can't see what he is doing, but I can hear him rooting around, and when he climbs back onto the bed he is holding what looks like a purple cosmetics bag. He puts it down behind him, somewhere near my feet, before opening that, too, to retrieve what look like slick, wide purple ribbons adorned with pink fluff. My breath hitches.

'You like these, huh?' He takes one in his hands, wrapping each end around his fingers before snapping it tight.

'They are … restraints?' I can barely get the words out. My pants are beginning to feel a little tight, a budding warmth in my groin, and Papa winks at me.

'You were expecting something scary?' I nod. 'Do not worry. These are soft, but they will do the job. Now I need you to lift your arms for me …'

I do as I'm told, without any hesitation, and say nothing as Papa ties each of my wrists to the bedposts so that my arms are splayed out wide above me and there is little room for manoeuvre. He hums as he checks each restraint, his face the picture of concentration.

' _Perfetto._ Give me a wiggle?'

I try to move my arms, and though the restraints are indeed soft to the touch, they do not allow me to travel very far. He sits up again.

'That is what we like to see. Are you comfortable, Copia? Not too tight?'

'No. This is fine.'

'Good … good. Might I add, you look divine, _mio caro._ At my mercy … I wish you could see yourself.'

He reaches down with one hand to lazily palm at the front of his trousers, and I close my eyes against the sight that is already sending little waves of pleasure through me.

'Stop it,' I mumble. 'I love seeing you touch yourself.'

'I know you do. That is why I am doing it.' I keep my eyes closed, turning my head away for good measure. 'Ah. No, we can't have that. Look at me, Copia.'

With hesitation, I do. He is unfastening his trousers, and when he takes out his cock, it is half-hard.

'I want you to watch me, OK?' he says, wrapping one hand around himself to slide it up and down his length. He moves slowly, reacting only with changes in his breathing, then lets himself go. 'Keep your eyes on me. OK …'

He leans back, sitting upright with a slightly arched back so that he is pushing his hips and his cock toward me, then starts on the buttons of his own shirt, the ruffled number that Sister Imperator had considered for me. How it would ever suit me, I cannot imagine, now I have seen it on him. He is not moving with any sort of hurry, and I am mesmerised. When he has the whole thing open, he slips out of it, and lets it drift to the floor.

'Your turn,' he says, shuffling backwards and making absolutely sure his half-hard cock touches mine for a tantalising second when he leans down, but then he keeps shuffling so that he can reach my flies with his hands. I am hardening, too, and he makes a throaty sound of approval when he sees how strained the fabric is. Even through it, the light, quick movements he is making are beginning to torture me, and the thought strikes me that he is undoubtedly planning on making the most of this. I understand, now, the purpose of these restraints.

'Papa …' I gasp. 'Will you touch me? Please?'

'Terzo. Remember.'

'Terzo … sorry … _fuck._ '

'Well.' He has finished with my flies now, and he tugs the front of my trousers down a little. There is some relief from the building pressure, but when it is gone, I find I miss it. 'You want me to touch you? Then you had better call me by the name I asked you to call me by, huh?'

I cry it aloud, over and over, but he does not react to me. 'Hips up, please. Let's get you out of these. They must be _so_ tight …'

They are. I raise my hips off the bed, and Papa manipulates my trousers over them and down my thighs, pausing only when he realises I am still wearing my boots. With them gone, tossed aside without any patience, and my socks, too, he strips me down to my underwear. I keep my hips pushed upwards in a desperate attempt to be touched, twisting my waist from side to side, and he watches me with amusement.

'Clamouring for my touch, _mio caro_? You have no idea what that does to me. How fulfilling it is to know how much you want my hands on you …'

I have some idea, but rational thought is becoming a struggle. 'Please …' I whine, staring up at him with wide eyes.

' _Ah,_ ' he sighs. 'Look at you. So hard already, my love. Can you be patient for me while I …?'

He nods down at his own trousers, and I groan, throwing my head back and screwing up my eyes before I remember that he wants me to watch him. Fortunately, I think he understands this is a momentary, involuntary reaction. He twirls his thumb over his cockhead for a decadent second, then removes the rest of his clothes. Unlike me, he was not wearing underwear. When his trousers drop to the floor, his cock is free, and he kneels above me, completely naked.

'This isn't fair,' he purrs. 'Me, all on display, when you are hiding your shame? No. We must do something about that.'

He is going to touch me. Thank fuck.

But not before he touches himself. He tilts his head to one side and places one hand on his hip while the other finds his erection: his thumb strokes his head again. 'Hm. You _are_ excited, aren't you? Those boxer shorts can barely contain you any more …'

'No. I need you to take them off. Please, Terzo.'

He gives me a sly half-smile. ' _That's_ my name. Well done.'

I'm rewarded with the slow removal of my boxer shorts. He lets out a long moan when he sees my cock, hard and leaking precum: he swiftly wipes my tip with his thumb, which he then sucks on deeply, pulling it in and out of his lips like he truly is savouring my taste.

' _Mmm.'_ He pulls his thumb from his mouth with a wet _pop_. 'Fuck, that is good. The perfect _hors d'oeuvre_ , no?'

More pre is beading at my tip: this, he allows to drip onto my stomach.

'Before we go any further,' he says thoughtfully, 'do you mind if I take a photo of you? Just for … prosperity. And to keep me warm on these cold Swedish nights?'

I allow it, and he snaps a couple of me on his phone while I stare into the camera lens. I would want a thousand photos of him, if the roles were reversed. I _do_ want a thousand photos of him, but the risk of somebody finding them back at the clergy … it is low, but the implications are huge.

'So beautiful, _mio caro_ …' he whispers, as he stashes his phone out of the way again and positions himself above my thighs. 'So, so beautiful.'

And – _finally –_ he takes my cock in one hand. The noise I make at his touch is animalistic, and I would be ashamed of it if I cared. The sensation is too great, the relief too strong. I feel him stroke me and I moan without restraint. 'Yes, Terzo … _cazzo,_ _s_ _ì_ …'

' _Cazzo_ indeed,' Papa mutters. He lets me go, leans down to lick my slit, and I thrust upwards instinctively. 'You enjoy that, huh?' I moan my appreciation and he licks me again, circling my cockhead with the very tip of his tongue. 'Well, maybe I should have some of that, too.'

He walks his arms up the bed, either side of me, then follows with his knees until his erection is hovering over my face, and he pushes his hips down. I do not need to be told: I tilt my face upwards and lick the underside of his shaft, drawing a breathy moan from his lips somewhere above me. I pause, but he doesn't move, so I do it again, starting with the balls and dragging my tongue up him more slowly this time. It is the first time I have tasted his cock. It is warmer, fleshier than I would have expected, even though I ought to have had an idea. I suppose I have just rarely dared to imagine what this might be like. My own cock is pulsing with every noise he emits – then he withdraws, pushing himself back into an upright position, sitting across my thighs. Precum drips from his cock onto me, mingling with my own.

The northern lights are still swirling in the sky behind him.

'No one will see us …?' I mumble. 'There is no one around here, is there?'

I am asking only out of interest now. If Sister Imperator herself walked right by our glass bedroom, I would not give one solitary fuck.

Papa leans down to stroke my cheek. 'There is only you and I,' he says. 'Only you and I, _mio caro._ '

I make to reach up to him, desperate to hold him, and I am surprised when the restraints jerk me back into place: he smiles warmly.

'Patience.'

I watch him reach back into his cosmetics bag. This time, he retrieves a small bottle of lube, and a shockwave of arousal begins at my groin and zips through my whole body. _Fuck._

He presses the pump a couple of times to deposit some onto his fingertips, and I inhale sharply. He doesn't look up at me, but his lips quirk upwards.

'Everything OK, _mio caro_?'

' _S_ _ì. Va tutto bene._ '

Apart from the desperation with which I want him to touch me. My cock is steadily dripping onto my stomach and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it – I feel strained, tight. I'm throbbing with a beautiful discomfort and I writhe against my bonds in a vain attempt to touch myself – it makes him smile.

'Right …' He sighs, then holds up a forefinger. 'One finger, _sì_? Any pain, anything at all – you tell me.'

I am past caring. Why is he taking so long over _everything_? 'Just do it,' I manage to choke out. I bend my knees, bringing my feet up the bed so my ass tilts up towards him, and I don't think the movement was conscious. He notices this, I am sure. He's smiling again.

'Copia,' he says. 'When you get back to the ministry … how long are your shortest cycling shorts?'

I groan. 'For _fuck's_ sake …'

'Tell me. I'm serious.'

'They all go just above my knees.'

'So no one will see your thighs?' I shake my head. 'Excellent.'

He says nothing more on that. Just leans forward again and brings his lubricated finger to my entrance: whatever he has used tingles, and I inhale sharply, closing my eyes again. Papa does not tell me off this time. He has settled into a rhythm, gently running the pad of his finger up and down me with just enough pressure to stimulate. I feel him leaning down but I do not expect the warm kiss he presses to my inside thigh.

' _Mmmm._ ' Another kiss, slightly higher up this time, and I whine – the skin there is more sensitive, the sensation more intense, and he is still fingering my hole. 'These legs. These _legs_ … I can think of nothing other than how much I want to …'

I know what he is going to do now, and I cry out as he does indeed sink his teeth into my flesh, sucking hard – then his finger is inside me. I have no idea how I missed him slip it in, but I suspect that was his intention. The now-smarting bite was a distraction technique, easing my tension. He is curling and uncurling, pushing in, looking for something, and I am writhing under him because whatever he is after is very, very close.

'Two fingers?' I nod, gasp a response that I am sure makes no sense, and he adds the other. It feels tight, but not overwhelmingly so. He's closer to that spot now, too, the one I think is going to do insane things to me when he finds it – and he does. He is the expert here, after all.

' _Cazzo_ …' Is all I manage to get out. He massages my prostate and I feel like I have to pee and ejaculate and cry, all at once, while being unable to do any of them. I'm on a tantalising edge with no control over when I plunge headlong over it.

'Oh, my love, look at you,' Papa sighs. 'Barely able to think straight. Tell me.' His pulsing fingers begin to slow, and I groan in my throat. 'How does it feel, having me inside you like this?'

I want to scream at him to stop wasting his energy on talking when he could be using it for _anything_ else. The effort I have to put into not doing so rather hampers my ability to speak coherently. 'Fucking … love you inside me, Terzo …'

'Yes, you do, don't you?' I nod, desperate to agree with everything he says so he will start to move faster again. 'How would you feel if, instead of my fingers, it were my cock?'

There is a lurch in my stomach. 'Yes. Please. Fuck me.'

I am surprised by how abrupt I am capable of being when I am in this state. I am so far gone, now, more turned on than I have ever been before, that neither my mind nor my mouth are capable of anything complex. My cock has taken over my entire body and I need to be fucked. I need to _come._ The desire aches, inside and out.

'So polite.' Papa, slowly, withdraws his fingers. 'It will be my pleasure, _mio caro._ Biting that thigh of yours has already been a dream come true, and now I'm permitted to indulge in another …'

How are words able to ripple my arousal this way? He is not touching me but my cock throbs. This is a dream come true for me, too. A dream I am regretting keeping to myself for so, so long.

He pumps out more lube. He's breathing heavily and I can feel him repositioning himself on the bed between my legs: he slides forward, his thighs underneath my ass and his erection rubbing against me as he shifts around. At this little lull, I am able to open my eyes and take him in, catching my breath – though it is snatched away again when, in all my arousal, I am newly astounded by his beauty. I had almost forgotten he was still fully painted. His lips are parted, his breath still hard through them. He glances up and notices me watching him, and he takes one hand to his cock to stroke himself as he meets my eyes.

'You are doing so well, _mio caro,_ ' he whispers.

I do not feel as though I am doing well. I fear I must look a mess under him. Another little splash of precum lands on my abdomen, and I give a low moan. Papa lets his cock go, placing his hands on the bed either side of me so that he can lean over me.

'Again,' he says. 'You tell me how it feels, _sì_? I stop if you are in any way uncomfortable. I want to know what is good for you.'

I trust him, though. I do not anticipate him doing anything that will make me any more uncomfortable than the longing I am feeling that stretches every second he is not touching me into a year. As if reading my thoughts, he dips his hips, his cock teasing at my entrance. Then, he bends his elbows, and I tilt my head upward instinctively. He pauses with his face centimetres from mine: I can smell the wine we had after dinner on his breath.

'OK?'

I nod, and he smiles fleetingly before closing the gap to kiss me, prising my lips open and sucking my tongue into his mouth at the same moment he reaches down to guide the head of his cock inside me. The desire to wrap both arms around him and hold him to me is overwhelming. I'm pulling at my restraints, I'm kissing him hungrily, I'm pushing my hips upwards to try to push _him_ further into me … this isn't enough. I know he is merely taking care, but I am past that point now and his patience is infuriating.

He pulls away from me, with another tiny smile, then leans back up to push himself further inside me. His eyes drift closed, his lips part. I watch his face as he buries himself inside me, and after all this longing I am now mesmerised by his reaction to his own pleasure as he pulls partway out and savours the entire motion. This, too, is tight. But it is the right sort of tight. This is how it is supposed to be, how I should have made love to him last night.

I close my eyes.

'Yes …' he mutters, and he pushes into me again. 'Yes … perfect.'

This is how he thrusts at first. Slow, intense movements that force me to feel every second of the sensation of him inside me, and the desperation wanes, replaced by something new and almost – but not _exactly –_ relaxing. I have lost some of my urgency, at least, in favour of enjoying this luscious new feeling.

But his pace does not stay slow forever, and when he begins to become more focused, the sounds of his balls slapping against me now prominent, the throbbing in my cock makes itself known again – as does the realisation that he is still not touching me. He hits my prostate with some of his movements but still, those waves of arousal are strong enough to tease but not so strong as to bring me anywhere near the climax I suspect Papa will reach soon. I can hear a change in his breathing, feel a dip in his rhythm. He cannot maintain it because he is losing his grasp on his rational thought, too. The sounds he is making are instinctive, groans and whines without words. I open my eyes. I want to see this, my Papa gasping for breath as he takes his pleasure from me.

He's glistening with sweat, he's panting, he's pink and I'm hit by another wave of desire at the idea that I am the one who has driven him to this point.

'Are you going to come, Terzo?' I say.

He nods. _'Certo che sono … la mio bellissimo Copia_ …'

And my name tumbles from his lips over and over as he delivers his last hard, shallow thrusts before he stills, his cum spurting forth to fill me up. His head has tilted backwards, his arms locked to allow his back to arch downwards. There is a tiny whine in his throat with every breath.

'Copia … fuck … so, so good …'

I watch, as he returns to himself, opening his eyes to gaze down at me. He leans back, kneels up, to pull out of me.

'I need you to promise me two things, _mio caro_ ,' he says quietly. His breathing is still uneven. 'When I do what I am about to do … I need you to keep your hips on the bed, _sì?_ And I … I really appreciated it when you told me you were going to come the other night. Please can you do that again for me?'

Oh … _oh._ He is going to suck me. He is finally going to let me come. I feel tears forming, and I squeeze my eyes shut. 'I promise, Terzo.'

'No rest for the wicked,' he says, and he clumsily reverses back down the bed and, without hesitation, takes my cock into his mouth. There's an urge to thrust, my poor cock twitching with relief at being touched again, but I hold back. He is not teasing me now, anyway. He is taking me down his throat – I feel him gag, but he recovers quickly, saliva pooling around me as my length slides into him. He is moving with purpose. He takes my balls in hand, caresses them swiftly, then slips a hand underneath me to push the pads of his fingers onto my taint and pulse there instead, in time with the bobs of his head that are finally pushing me towards that release surging, hot and intense, through my entire body.

'Papa …' I moan. I quite forget my promise to him, but with my cock in his mouth, he does not object. 'Any second …'

And he pops off me. I cannot suppress my hoarse groan, and tears slip down either side of my face as I screw it up. He cannot be serious. I was so close. _So_ close.

'Terzo. _Please._ This is … you are killing me …' It is a sob and I don't even care.

'No … no, I want to see it. I want to watch you cover yourself in cum for me, Copia. I missed you in the shower this morning, I will not miss you now.' He sits to the side of me, then takes hold of my cock gently. 'Hips down. OK?'

I nod, inhaling hard and biting back a string of clumsy insults as he gets to work stroking me. Again, he begins slowly, but this does not last long. His other hand slips back to my taint and the two work in rhythm, sensations that build and rise together into one force that threatens to overtake me. I am scared to warn him, in case he withdraws his touch. It has taken just seconds to get me close to the edge again and, this time, I need to tip over it.

I hear him exhale. 'Breathe, _mio caro_.'

I had not realised I had been holding my breath. I let it out, and my entire body succumbs to one of the last swells of arousal that anticipates a climax.

'When you are ready,' Papa says softly. 'Come for me. OK?'

And I do, like one who has not ejaculated in a year: it eclipses me completely. The sound I make is something like a wail as my entire body curls in on itself. I feel cum spurt onto my chest, then my stomach, then dribble from my slit as Papa strokes me through it all.

' _Era ancora piu bello di quanto avessi sperato …_ ' he sighs. He leans down to lick the spillage from me as I slump back onto the bed, taking deep, calming breaths to remind myself who I am, where I am and who I am with. As I begin to return to Earth, I realise this assurance is the best thing he could have said to me. I do not feel any sort of embarrassment at my actions any more, voluntary or involuntary. I roll my head to the side and open my eyes to find him watching me with a calm, considered expression. He is close to smiling.

'Untie me.' I am begging him. 'Please. Untie me.'

He rushes to it, but he is an expert: I am free within seconds to throw both of my arms around him, launching myself on him in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. I do not know how I have the energy: indeed, it lasts only seconds. I lean away from him with a sigh, and he finally raises that smile.

'How do you like the taste of your own cum?' he says.

I cannot even form the words to respond. I just let myself fall back onto the bed, and this time, he comes with me. He gathers me up in his arms, and I turn into him, resting my head on his shoulder.

'You lasted a little longer than two seconds tonight, _mio caro_ ,' he says.

I should be embarrassed about this, but the Cardinal Copia from the bathroom back at the lodge is gone. This version of me is able to reconcile my aroused self with my rational self, and this version of me is happy to accept that they are the same person. 'Thanks to you,' I mumble.

'I told you I would show you some stuff.'

'And it was …' I shake my head. I don't know _what_ it was. 'Oh, I can't think of proper words right now, Terzo. You must understand.'

'But you must be able to think of a basic feeling? Good or bad? What did you enjoy, what didn't you enjoy?' He snuggles a little more closely into me. 'I need to know what to do more of and what to never do again, Copia.'

' _Good_. Of course. But …' I sigh. I know I am being mawkish, but he has asked, after all. 'While I know what you mean, about how satisfying it is to have someone else in control of your pleasure … I did miss holding you.'

I feel him chuckle. 'You are too precious.' He kisses the top of my head before pushing himself upright, and my arms fall away from him. I let out an involuntary, high-pitched little noise. 'I will be right back, don't worry.'

'But where are you going?'

He observes me with what I think might be the tiniest bit of worry. 'Just to the bathroom, _tesoro,_ ' he says, as though talking to a distressed toddler whose mother is leaving them at nursery for the first time. I watch him leave, literally crossing a couple of metres to the pod that must house our small bathroom for the night, and I'm prickling with irritation before I realise how needy I must have sounded to him.

He is gone less than two minutes, but I miss him deeply.

He returns with a flannel – he appears to have given himself a swift wash down while in the bathroom, and he kneels beside me on the bed to do the same thing to me. I close my eyes, stretching the length of my body out to allow him to sweep the flannel, dampened and comfortably warm, over my torso and between my legs. I should really shower, but I suspect I will be asleep within minutes now. When I am clean enough, he leans down to press a kiss to my forehead.

'It's OK,' he says. And I realise I needed to hear that from him – although I am not sure why.

Anxiety peaks a little when he goes to return the flannel, but he's back shortly, free of skull paint and looking just as sleepy as I feel now. He has a cold compress for my thigh, too, and for the first time I notice I am beginning to bruise. It even smarts when he applies the pressure.

This time we cuddle up under the blankets, and he pulls me onto his chest. His heart thuds, steady and comforting, against my ear.

And I want to talk. I really, really do. I want to tell him so many things that I have withheld for years, and so many things that have only surfaced in my mind tonight. I want him to know how much I appreciate his patience and care, as well as his body and the wonderful things he does to mine. I do not _want_ to sleep. I need it, but sleep will only bring around morning, and morning will bring my lift back to the airport, and to a flight that will take me away from him for … well. Who knew?

Now that I know he is here, I know that being at the ministry will never feel the same.

But my body has other ideas. I do not blame it. I do not know, in fact, how I ever managed to fall asleep anywhere other than Papa's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.lyrikline.org/en/poems/ah-ma-e-evidente-muoio-6501 The original Italian poem, by Patrizia Cavalli, can be found here.
> 
> I discovered it through its English translation when a friend read it to me, which I can't find, unfortunately. Fuck's sake.
> 
> I'll ask her, and in the meantime, I will just assure you that it was beaut.


	11. Fernando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday morning rolls around, and with it, a harsh dose of reality. Not all of the feelings this weekend has invoked are nice ones ...
> 
> There is, at least, time for one last moment of intimacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for hints at suicidal thoughts.
> 
> When I outlined this, each chapter seemed to have a similar amount of content, but I worry that these last few have wound up being too long because I underestimated how many words it takes to write certain scenes! Too much sex physics and too much bloody talking. I hope there hasn't been too much of an imbalance. I think I'm just irritated because I was very committed to my Arrival structure ...
> 
> If I manage to come up with a strong enough premise for a sequel, I'll try to fix that. But in the meantime, enjoy!

We have all seen the footage.

Papa is standing right at the front of the stage, conducting the crowd in the soulful, atmospheric climax to Monstrance Clock. Finishing off one of his many electric shows the way he has finished them so many times before, the fans singing along with arms and voices raised. He is just doing what he has always done, and doing it well.

Then he is snatched away.

It was unceremonious – not the extravagant burnout he would have chosen for himself, had he been able to choose – and nothing has been made of it at the ministry since. He was just there, and then he was not, and I am one of the smallest handful of people who knows what actually happened after that moment in Gothenburg. I know he is fine, and I know he is here with me.

But my waking mind has not told my subconscious mind this.

I dream of it again. I have had the dream before, always knowing something was not quite right but being unable to pinpoint exactly _what_. This time, Papa ought to be with me, I know this much, but he just … is not. Tonight the vision of Gothenburg fuses with the northern lights and ice sculptures and this bed in this igloo and I cannot tell when I am fully enveloped in dreams and when I am experiencing brief fits of wakefulness. Nothing makes sense, and everything is raw emotion.

When I wake up, for real, it is dark. No aurora in the sky, no moon, only the stars and the vaguest hint of light from back at the ice hotel. I stretch out an arm, reaching for Papa.

He is gone.

I am alone in the bed. I reach my other arm out, too, patting the mattress around me in case we have shifted positions but I know, of course, whether or not there is someone beside me and there is not. I am colder, I have more room to move.

'Papa?'

I'm scrabbling around the blankets, throwing pillows aside as though he could possibly have squeezed his entire body behind one. My chest tightens as I hurl them both to the floor with a growl, sitting upright. I can barely see around me, but I can see that he is not in this room.

'What the …? Papa, where the fuck …?'

My breaths are coming out shallow and I can hear my heartbeat right in my eardrums – so loudly that, when the door opens, I only just register the sound. I freeze at the noise, wary that someone or something has found us and has broken into the igloo, before I realise that the door that opened was the door to the bathroom. Terzo stands there. I would recognise his silhouette anywhere. He is frozen, naked, and he is staring at me. My ragged breathing must be tangible even from the other side of the room.

'You …' I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself: my voice is on the verge of breaking. 'Papa, you were gone …'

'Yes,' he says. He starts to walk back towards me as I scrabble along the bed, on my knees, to meet him. 'I just went for a piss, what the …?'

He trails off when I burst into tears.

I see him stiffen even through blurred vision and darkness: he was not ready for this, and nor was I. Sobs wrack my entire body, so violent and painful I feel as though they are choking me on their way out. I want to tell him I am OK but there is no room for words, and anyway, I don't think I am OK at all. This is not a proportionate reaction to one's lover going to the bathroom in the night.

He steps towards me, wraps both arms around me, and pulls me to his chest, where I bury my face and howl. There is no other word for it. He does not attempt to get any sense out of me, he simply rubs my back and whispers reassurances, and I cry and cry until my head pounds and my throat is raw.

'I'm here,' he keeps saying. 'It's OK. I'm here.'

I cling to him to assert that that is the truth. He is here with me. That should be enough.

He climbs onto the bed with me, in the end. As I calm myself down to mere hiccups, he moves us both back under the blankets, holding me tight to him the entire time. He breaks away only to pass me a wad of tissues from his cosmetics bag, and I shamefully dab myself – and him – down, blowing my nose and wiping at my eyes.

He holds me the whole time.

'Everything all right?' he whispers eventually, and I nod, with a sniff. 'Come on. Let's get you back to sleep.'

There probably ought to be a conversation, but neither of us wants to initiate it. This does not feel like the time and I, for one, am too tired anyway. I cannot think any more. I just push my whole body into Papa's.

'It was … it was just a nightmare,' I tell him. 'I'm sorry.'

'Hmm.' He does not believe me. Nor would I. Nobody reacts like that to a mere nightmare. Still, he winds his arms around me that bit more tightly. 'There is no need to apologise, _mio caro._ We have … we have both been through a lot.'

We both have. And we both need to address this.

But I fall asleep.

I do wake up again. Several times, in fact. And every time I do, Papa is awake too, ready to stroke my hair and tell me that everything is going to be fine.

*

When I wake up feeling as though I have had real rest, the sky is beginning to lighten. I do not open my eyes – they are sore, and it takes me a moment to remember why – but my lids are reddish when I raise my head from my pillow. My head hurts, too. I push my face back into the pillow as I feel something touch my shoulders.

'Mmm …' I mumble. It is a hand. A pair of hands, actually, warm and soft as they work together to massage the grooves where my shoulders meet my neck.

'Morning, _mio caro._ '

It takes me a while to wake up enough to work out what is happening here, but when I do, I fold my arms above my head with a smile.

'Good morning,' I say, my voice rasping from my throat. 'What time is it?'

'No concern of yours. We have time, do not worry. I simply would not have been able to forgive myself if I had let you get on that damn plane without another massage.' He presses his thumbs into me and there's a surge of pressured pain, but much like the afternoon in the hot tub, it hits a spot of some description. 'There is no need for you to get up. Or even wake up, if you want to go back to sleep. You might need the rest.'

'No … no. It is fine. I'm awake.'

I do not move, though, simply savouring this moment while I can. Much like the first massage, neither of us really speak. I do not know what I would say. I think my departure is hanging over both of us, but I am grateful that our time together is not over yet.

And he has more access to my whole body like this. Slowly, he works every part of me, from the shoulders down. My lower back needs extra attention, another part of me that I had no idea was so fraught with tension until he kneads it away. Then his palms find my ass cheeks, and while I know there is no ulterior motive here, memories of the night before send a tingle through my groin.

'Which is your dominant leg, Copia?' he says.

I had almost drifted off again: his voice shivers me awake. 'My right? I think.'

'That makes sense. You are so tight on your left hand side.'

He moves on from there, too, in the end, which is a disappointment until he starts on my thighs and I realise that he is right. My left thigh needs more work, my left calf, too, and I am a puddle in the bed by the time he runs his hands lightly all over me. His touch is warm, and it leaves ghost imprints on every part of my exposed flesh.

'OK?' he mutters.

'Beautiful. Thank you. I may just fall asleep here and deliberately miss my lift.'

'Please do not say things like that. You know how much I wish you could.'

I heave a sigh into my folded arms. He is still transferring heat to the sore parts of me that have received a particularly intense going over, and after a moment, he settles back on my ass. This time, the intent is there – I feel it in the less focused pulsing of his fingers, the depth of his breath.

'You are awake, though?' he says.

'I am now …'

In my mind's eye, I see the smile he gives my back.

'Love your ass, _mio caro._ Please, _please_ make sure you make proper use of it on-stage.'

Those skinny red trousers float to the forefront of my mind, the curve of my ass smooth and tight in the mirror as I nervously admired the way my body looked …

That evening might have belonged to another life.

'I will,' I say. 'If I know you can see me.'

I have not thought to look for a computer at the cabin, but I know he has a phone. Perhaps the signal out here isn't the strongest in the world, but he must be able to access the Internet in some capacity. Doubtless there will be videos of me on-stage, when the time comes, all over YouTube. There are many of him, after all, many I have let play late into the night when sleep evades me.

'I will live for it. I am going to follow Ghost like I am their biggest fan, because with you at the helm, I will be.' He leans down to kiss my lower back, then slips down to my left buttock. 'I can't wait.'

In my half-asleep haze, the warmth of his lips is soothing, even though I know where this is going to take us. He continues to cover me in soft kisses and I feel my weight laying heavier and heavier on the bedclothes, the last of the tension leaving my body. I only stir when he begins to give me tentative little licks, here and there. I snuggle myself down with a sigh.

'Is this OK?' Papa says, and I nod into my arms. 'OK. What about this?'

It is difficult to tell, with the area being so fleshy, but I am sure I can feel his mouth travelling with ease to the groove between my ass cheeks, and my only objection concerns him more than it does me.

'Are you sure?' I mumble.

'Positive, _mio caro_.'

There is more sensitivity the closer he gets, and I sigh when I feel his tongue protrude fully to lick me right between my ass cheeks. The arousal in me is only as strong as the usual morning fare, but the flattery of having Papa venture here with me is stoking it fast. I relax into it with ease. The Copia who will leave Sweden really is a different Copia from the one who arrived here.

He is teasing my hole lasciviously now. Less delicately. The bud of my erection is prodding at the mattress and I finally shift position to shuffle downwards with one hand. I may be awake, but I am still sleepy, and lazy fondling is all I can manage. Much as I know that this is reality – and much as I am overjoyed that this is reality – I am semi-lost in a dream.

My movements do not go unnoticed.

'Wait,' Papa whispers, breath tickling my entrance. 'Let me …'

He moves upwards, wrapping both arms around my waist and pressing his whole body against me. Then, together, he rolls us to the side so that I am lying as his little spoon. His cock is hardening behind me, worrying at my ass, and I sigh. I turn my head as far as I can, trying to make eye contact: for the first time that morning, I realise. He leans into me to allow it. His face, too, is bleary from sleep.

'Is there time?' I say.

'I told you. Do not worry about time. It is in hand.' He presses a long kiss to my lips. 'Trust me.'

He has lubed up two fingers and slipped them inside me before I can even tense up with the anticipation. I have settled back onto my pillow, with him so close behind me I can still feel his breath on the back of my neck. I am not even touching myself any more. I don't want to expend the energy. This is … so different from last night, but so comfortable. If asked which experience I preferred, I would struggle to choose. It is the variety that makes being with him like this so good. I think.

Not that I am an expert. I simply feel as though Papa knows me well enough to make every time good, no matter what he is doing.

'What do you need me to do, _mio caro_?' he mumbles into my ear before kissing the sensitive skin just underneath my earlobe, where my jaw meets my neck.

I am, truth be told, rather enjoying just doing this.

'Just …' I sigh, as he hits _that_ spot with his fingers. 'Maybe … you could play with me? I know I am not a particularly active participant, but …'

'But you are tired,' Papa finishes for me. 'I can see that much. And this is your weekend, so don't worry.'

I am tired, yes. But I am also leaking from my slit and tight in my balls and, once again, feeling a twinge of guilt that Papa is taking care of all of this for me.

'I will never be able to pay you back for _my_ weekend …' I say.

'No matter. I do not give to receive. I told you this.'

I have one hand folded in front of me, the other above my head, on my pillow. Papa finds that one with his own, and he laces his fingers through mine. More kisses, light and airy, to my neck.

'Actually … I do like having a hold on you,' I whisper.

He is stroking my hand with his thumb, as gently as he is kissing me. 'If it were possible, I would never let you go, _tesoro._ '

'Then … you could perhaps penetrate me with something else? That would leave both hands free to stroke me and keep holding my hand?'

The kissing pauses. 'Are you asking me to fuck you, _mio caro_?'

These hushed tones. This slowness. It is all so, so intense.

'I am.' My stomach swoops. If we are going to keep moving at this pace, the sooner we begin, the better.

I have patience I did not have last night. I wait as he withdraws his fingers and spends some time shuffling around behind me. I do not even turn to see what he is doing, assuming he has ventured into his cosmetics bag of mystery once again. Indeed, the hand that then stretches over my waist to find my erection is fresh and lubed up again, as is the cockhead that teases at my hole.

'I am going to go slowly,' Papa says. 'OK? And the way you are lying, you can move however you like.'

I test this, pushing my ass back to meet his cock. 'Well. I am not as well practised as you.'

'Then this is how you get your practise in. If you feel like something will work better for you from another angle, you move to that angle, Copia.'

He is pushing into me, beginning a steady stroking of my length with his hand, and my breath catches in my throat.

'And if I am moving too quickly or too slowly or too firmly or too gently, you will tell me.'

Another inch or so. Arousal is warming my lower abdomen.

'And if you suddenly want to flip me over and ride me like a space hopper …'

'Oh, Satan, stop it.' I am giggling now, and he leans in to nibble on my earlobe. ' _Stop it_ , Papa. You are … you are doing everything right. This is fine. This is wonderful.'

He moves further inside. I am tight around him, I am twitching in his hand.

'Isn't it?' he says.

He finds a rhythm, but it is a legato: he moves with deliberation and without rushing, so that the sensation of his cock inside me is ever-present and intense. It is the hand on my own cock, though, that I suspect will bring my arousal to its climax. I wonder if I will come before him. Our hands are loosely linked above my head, caressing one another, and mine is the first to stop and grip the other tightly.

' _Mmm … sto venedo, tesoro,_ ' I whine. I have not lasted as long as last night, but I do not think Papa has any reason to mind this time. I finish in his hand as he whispers praise into my ear, and I am just letting my body loosen again when he, too, comes inside me.

He does not withdraw immediately. Neither of us speaks. We simply lie, motionless, save for the rising and falling of our chests and our still-twirling hands.

It is Papa who, after a time, concedes that we should start to think about getting out of bed. We shower together in virtual silence, taking it in turns to wash one another's hair. It is not the silence of discomfort, though, more the silence of two people who are all too aware of what might be going on in the other's mind. I don't know what I can say to him, in this moment, that he would want to hear or that he had not heard from me already over the course of the weekend.

Well. There is one thing. But the idea of voicing that is terrifying - as is the idea that it might be received badly.

No. I say nothing. We just dry off slowly, dress, and start packing our things away.

It is only when we are stripping the bed ready for the hotel staff to come back and clean the room that I think of something worth voicing. I'm glad he doesn't think it's strange that we are doing this. I would be mortified if I knew that the lovely receptionist had seen the state of the bedclothes.

'This is … this is quite disgusting, when you stop and think about it,' I say, as I shuffle the duvet out of its cover.

'What is?' I don't think Papa was ready to listen to me.

'Sorry. I mean sex in general, I suppose, and all of the … the mess it makes. When you used to tell me your stories, at least, they always sounded so sordid. But last night, and this morning – indeed, almost everything that has happened between us this weekend – does not _feel_ sordid. Do you know what I mean? When you are in the middle of it, it feels like …'

' _Feels like makin' love_ ,' Papa sings.

I can't help but snort. 'Well … precisely.'

He brings breakfast from the main hotel building, black coffee and thick yoghurt and hot, berry-topped porridge that fills me up more substantially than any I have had before. We sit on the bed together, careful not to spill anything onto the stripped sheets as we watch the snowy world outside wake up around us.

'Go on, then,' I say, once I have scraped the last of the porridge from my bowl. 'I suppose you had better tell me. How much time do I have until Phil turns up?'

He did not want to hear that. His lips turn down, and he glances at his watch.

'It is nothing to worry about, since he has all your things from the cabin sorted and you are all packed up here, but … twenty minutes.'

This will be the fastest twenty minutes of my life. I force a smile. 'Then thank you for waking me up so early. I have had a wonderful morning.'

Papa just nods down at his bowl. I don't think he knows what to say any more, either.

When we are dressed in our coats again, though, it is him who speaks first.

'I know it probably doesn't need saying, because you aren't an idiot, but I'm going to say it anyway,' he says. 'When you get home … any attempt to contact me could be incredibly dangerous. For both of us. But especially me. You … you understand that, don't you?'

'Yes. Of course.'

'Good.' He clears his throat. 'And you can't act as though you are anything other than _overjoyed_ to be taking over my position. Do whatever you need to do. Pose for promo with an effigy of my head, anything. Show the world that you're revelling in your new role and that you do not give a fuck about the last dead Emeritus brother.'

'But the last dead Emeritus brother will always be the best frontman Ghost ever had,' I say. 'And I care about him a great deal. I hope he knows that?'

'Oh, he knows.' Papa bites his lip, looking down at his snow boots. 'Then, I suppose … one of us had better start, hadn't we?'

'Start what?'

He swallows. 'Start the goodbye proceedings. I know we have time, but I don't think this is going to be a very swift goodbye, do you?'

My internal organs – all of them, it seems – are protesting violently at this idea.

'Oh … no. Can we not skip all of that nonsense? I don't think I want to deal with goodbye.'

I did not expect Papa to glare at me the way he does when I say this.

'It may be nonsense to you, but after I was dragged away from my home and almost killed without the chance to say goodbye to anyone, Copia, that nonsense is rather important to me,' he snaps. 'All right?'

I feel my throat tighten. Of course: I'm not sure how I could have been so callous. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have …'

But he waves his hand. 'I'm … no. _I'm_ sorry. I'm not mad at you, I'm mad that you have to go.'

I nod. My throat is still tight. 'I'm mad that I have to go, too,' I whisper.

He manages a smile at that. We gaze at one another, bright and fresh in the light reflecting off the snow even as we are tired and wrapped up in our thick, dark coats.

'Cardinal Copia,' Papa says, slowly and deliberately.

I make a tiny noise of acknowledgment.

'I have loved you for so long …'

And my heart does a somersault that I am not ready for: I can't even be sure whether it is supposed to be a pleasurable sensation or not. I screw up my eyes, turning my face away from his. 'No. Papa, I am not strong enough to hear –'

' _Please_ don't interrupt me,' he begs. He takes hold of me by both shoulders, turning me back towards him, and I open my eyes to come face-to-face with his, wide and shining. 'The worst part of leaving the ministry was leaving _you,_ Copia. I have been over this speech in my head so many times since I arrived here, in the hope that I would see you again one day and be able to deliver it, that I have it perfected. Please.'

This feels too intense. Too _final._ But I nod anyway. This is important to him, and anything that is important to him is important to me. Even if I already know it is going to tear my heart in two.

He is looking at me as though it is going to tear his, too. 'I have loved you for so long that I have forgotten the person I was before then. I imagine he was unpleasant and weak-willed. It doesn't matter, though. He met _you,_ thank Satan, and over the course of our friendship you turned him into … well, into me. Someone who is strong, self-assured and simply happier in his own skin. Because you do that to people, Copia. You are kind, and wise, and you always bring out the best in people, even those who do not outwardly appear to have much good in them.'

It is becoming more and more difficult to maintain his gaze, but I force myself to do it. I know, though, that he must be looking at the most flushed face in the whole of Sweden right now.

'And … and I don't know whether I would still be here if not for you. I'm not saying that in some co-dependent way. I'm not saying _I need you so much, you are my other half,_ nothing like that. I _am_ saying that you just make me … my true self. If I had never known you, I don't know that I would have lasted five minutes out here alone, you understand? I mean … it may have been Phil who saved me from my father in Gothenburg that night, but …'

Here, his voice cracks, and I break the eye contact. This is too much.

'But the reason I'm still …'

He gestures toward his chest, trying desperately to get the words out, but he is so overcome by emotion that he can't.

And he doesn't need to. I understand him, and he knows it. I pull him to me, one hand behind his head and the other at his waist, and I hold him close as he begins to sob gently into my shoulder.

In the early hours of this morning, when I broke down on finding myself in an empty bed, he must have felt the way I do now, and it is … horrific. Even though he is telling me my influence has, perhaps, kept him alive, he has also told me that my influence was needed in the first place. And it seems hopeless, trying to talk to him about his struggles when I am on the verge of leaving him indefinitely with no hope of getting in touch with him in the meantime.

The prospect is making me nauseous. I start to stroke his back, and he adjusts his grip on me.

'I did have it perfect,' he sniffs. 'I promise.'

'It _was_ perfect, Terzo.' I kiss the top of his head. 'Absolutely perfect. I just … wish you had told me you have been feeling like this. We could have talked.'

'How could I have told you? You were only here for the weekend. I couldn't have made myself your burden, you have enough happening in your life already.'

'Terzo – you are not my _burden._ You are my best friend.' I take hold of his face and tilt it up to mine, all bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, and I have never felt such intense affection towards him in my life. 'My … partner. Whatever word you want to use. Therefore, my role in your life is to support you through _anything._ OK? However awful or upsetting it may be, you will never burden me with it. You only have to tell me.'

'But –'

'But nothing. Next time I am here –' He gives a little sob at that, and I lean down to press a kiss to his forehead. 'There _will_ be a next time, Terzo, I promise. Next time I am here, we are going to sit down and you are going to talk to me. Never mind entertaining me. You have done more than enough of that this weekend, and it has been the best weekend of my entire life. But relationships can't all be … ice hotels and pancakes. And I am here for the gritty stuff, too.'

I don't think he is capable of saying anything any more, and I know the feeling. To save him the embarrassment I suspect he is struggling with, I try to cover his mouth with mine, but he wriggles away from me.

'I'm all … snotty …' he grumbles.

'I don't care,' I say, and my stomach gives a lurch at what I am about to tell him. 'Terzo, I love you. Snot or not.'

He forgets to be hesitant then, and he closes the gap between us for a short, but fierce, kiss.

It is only when Phil's arrival is imminent that we tidy ourselves up to make our way out into the snow.

'When you get back to the ministry,' Papa says under his breath. 'I want you to do me a favour. If you are able.'

'Erm … I suppose there is a reason I may not be able to do it?'

'Well … let's see. That Sister you wished was me … what was her name?'

I bite my lip: I know, when I say it, that Papa will know exactly who I mean. 'Sister Mary Cynthia.'

His eyes glint, and he smiles coyly. 'Ah. Yes. Small, big eyes?' I nod. 'Lovely little thing, she was. I met her when she was very new.'

'Yes, she … she said.'

'Ah. I see.' I chuckle sheepishly. 'Then if it's possible, Copia, I would love for you to go back to her and give her the pleasure you attempted to give her that night. I would hate to think that the ghost of me stole it from her.'

That was not the favour I would have anticipated, and I genuinely do not know if I will be able to follow it up. 'You don't mind –?'

'Of course I don't. It would be part of your role in the ministry, just as it was when I was Papa there, huh?' He sighs. 'Look, I understand you do not find it easy to engage in these acts with people you are not romantically attracted to, so it is not an order. Just … something to think on. I feel at least partially responsible for her disappointment but unfortunately I cannot do anything about it myself.'

I nod. 'OK. With your blessing, I will try. I suppose now I have overcome the hurdle of actually sleeping with someone, the prospect isn't too frightening.'

There is a noise in the distance, one that does not blend in with the quiet stillness of the fir trees and the snow. A car engine.

'Phil,' I say.

'He won't be able to park up here. He'll have to walk the last little way.'

Sure enough, as we listen, the engine noise stops before we see the car at all.

'Papa,' I say. 'If you ever feel you need to … you know … I suppose I'm trying to say I don't _mind_ , if you get lonely …'

He raises his eyebrows. 'With him?'

'With … yes. Or anyone else. I know your appetite is rather different from my own, and … it must be hard, out here. I would not want to be the one who keeps you from something that might make you feel less lonely. You don't have to just … wait on me.'

' _If I had to do the same again, I would, my friend_ ,' says Papa.

I smile sadly at him.

'Come here,' I say. 'Give me a kiss. Please.'

We break apart only when we hear Phil approach. When I turn to face him, I am sure he is smiling.

'Hello,' he says. 'I take it you've had a good weekend?'

I don't think I mind him knowing. I assume, in fact, that he suspected as much from the preparations Papa roped him into when he found out I was coming. I give Papa one last squeeze.

'The best,' I say. Then, to Papa: ' _Ti amo, mio caro._ '

' _Ti amo anch'io_.'

*

I put the idea to Phil, too, when we set off. I can't look at him when I do, but I am confident in my words even as I gaze out at the steadily falling snow. This is something I would never have been able to say on Friday, but something I know I must make clear now.

He reaches out to pat my arm, even as he is negotiating these tricky roads.

'Cardinal – honestly?' he says. 'I'm not sure I could bring myself to do it. Not now I've seen you two together. I don't think I could meet the standard set by his one true love …'

I have to stare quite hard out of the window for the rest of the journey home so Phil doesn't see me crying.

I am still a bit of a mess when he drops me off at the airport, though, and I can't hide it from him – or indeed anyone else. I register a few sideways glances as we say goodbye before I make my way through to departures, but I couldn't care less.

'Oh, Cardinal …' Phil sighs. He wraps an arm around my shoulders. 'I'm so sorry. I wish I could think of a way around this.'

'Fuck. Me, too.'

'Do you know when you'll be able to see him again?'

I shake my head, sniffing: Phil digs a packet of tissues out from his pocket and hands them to me. 'Here.'

'You had those ready. You knew.' I blow my nose as he watches me.

'Of course I did. You two were always ridiculously obvious.' He chuckles to himself, his nervous little chuckle that I always found rather endearing, before he goes quiet. 'How are you feeling? It must have been a hell of a shock, finding him there. I did wonder whether I ought to've warned you …'

'You did the right thing by not saying anything, I think. He would have killed you if he'd found out,' I say.

'He genuinely would have. You're right.'

He is still waiting for my answer to his question, though, no matter how much I try to deflect. I give another heavy sniff.

'I feel awful,' I say. I pause to dab at my eyes with another tissue, trying to buy myself more time, but there really isn't much more I can say. 'I can hardly bear the idea that I have to leave him here alone. That's why I asked you to … to …' He nods knowingly. 'Aha? I know he was here on his own anyway _,_ but now I _know_ about him, and I can't so much as write him a letter …' Tears are streaming down my cheeks again, and Phil gives my shoulder a squeeze.

'But you'll be back. You _will_ be. This isn't goodbye forever.'

It certainly feels like it, though, standing here in the airport preparing to travel at hundreds of miles an hour in the opposite direction from him. The only thing that will make me get on that plane is the thought of seeing Per and Marie again. But for the most part, all the plane will do is take me back to responsibility, and reality, and Sister Imperator grilling me on the thoughts I have had over my long weekend of relaxation …

'And when the next two years are over and done with, maybe after that you can retire and move out here,' says Phil, dragging me out of my unpleasant daydream.

'Two years is such a long time, though,' I sniff.

'It will fly by when you're as busy as you're going to be. And I will look after him, Cardinal, I promise.'

I have to think for a moment about what he means. What on Earth does he think I will be busy with? When I realise, I have to laugh. The entire reason I was here was to clear my mind in preparation for these two years, and I have almost forgotten. I came to Sweden to be alone, and instead I am leaving Sweden with a lover after a lifetime of being alone. A lover I am not allowed to see, or contact, or even mention once I get back to the ministry.

It's a lot to take in.

Once again, I rue my lack of preparation in not bringing a notebook and pen with me, but I am sure I could manage to flag down an air hostess to ask for a pen and a few sheets of paper. I need to make some physical sense of the vague ideas in my mind: the outfits, the song ideas, the stage movements. I don't need to present Sister with a few scraps of airline-branded paper, but having them written in front of me will help me to speak to her without waffling. Or getting distracted by the memories of what I have actually spent my weekend doing …

But he has been the calming influence I needed. I just can't explain that to anyone.

I've been staring off at the departures board, the cities and flight numbers blurring into one smudged light. I look back at Phil. He still has his arm around me, watching me with those intense, green eyes I have always been rather fond of, if I am being honest.

'I know you will,' I say. 'Just … remember what I said. I would not mind.'

He just nods, and I lean into him for an embrace like a child. I feel him sigh as he winds his other arm around me.

'I'll be thinking, though,' he says. 'I'm sure there is something more tangible I can do.'

I smile sadly before leaning back to look down at him. 'Phil, you saved him. You've done more than enough.'

'I saved him for what? A life of missing you?' He shakes his head. 'That won't do, will it?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another highly personal note on Ghost and sexuality ...
> 
> The Ghost fandom is the only place I feel happy and safe exploring this sort of thing, and thank you all so much for entertaining me as I muddle through it. In all my 20+ years I have never felt so confident and happy with myself as a sexual being and it's all because of Ghost. I know I'm not the only person to feel this way. So writing this has been really intense and difficult at times, but also a lot of fun and very freeing. I feel much more looked after by this band and this fandom than I ever have with an actual partner ... sad, really, isn't it? But it does mean I now know exactly what I need from future partners, and I'm not willing to settle for anything less.
> 
> I hope to god you aren't reading this, king, but if you are? I don't think you'll ever fully comprehend how many lives you've improved in this way.
> 
> Your comments and kudos and support have meant the absolute WORLD to me throughout this, anyway. I never thought I would be able to please people with smut but here we are. Much love to everyone who has followed and enjoyed this stupid journey of emotions these Satan boyfriends have taken together.


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